


The Circle Stands Between Us

by scribbledinhaste



Category: Dragon Age Inquisition - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Love Triangles, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-03 01:44:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 91,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12738492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribbledinhaste/pseuds/scribbledinhaste
Summary: Rosalind Trevelyan made a promise to her brother: to remember that magic is meant to serve, and never rule. But can she keep this promise when everyone around her expects her to lead? A slow-burn romance between Cullen Rutherford and Rosalind Trevelyan (mage).





	1. Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've got the first 10 chapters up now. Let me know what you think, and if you're interested in seeing more. I've got more scenes written, but haven't polished them yet. Thought I'd post what I had as an incentive to finish!

*

“Run. Run. Warn them!”

Someone was yelling, and her heart was hammering in her chest. Her left hand was on fire, and she'd lost her staff. Hair fell into her eyes, and sweat trickled down between her shoulder-blades. But she ran. Her lungs screamed in protest, a stitch in her side. But she ran. She didn't look back. Afraid to look back. She'd only seen HIM once. And she never wanted to again.

Run.

Warn them.

Warn everyone. Everyone. 

She hurtled up the mountainside, reaching an ugly green tear in the sky. Another woman raced beside her, urging her to run.

Warn them! Someone had to be able to stop HIM. Someone. Anyone.

She needed to let them know.

'But there's no one left. There's no one. Everyone is dead.

It was true. She didn't know how she knew. But she knew it was true. Everyone was dead. Everyone. Including the woman urging her to run. Including HIM. Dead.

If everyone was dead, who could she warn? Who could help her? Who could help her stop HIM?

No one. She was alone. She'd have to do this alone.

Fear gripped her heart. Fear like she'd never known before. Alone. Everyone dead. Even HIM.

She wasn't a fighter. She couldn't do this.

But something deep inside—something that didn't even seem to belong to her—whispered 'yes you can' and her hand bloomed in even more pain. She staggered in surprise both at the voice and the new stab of pain lacing up her arm. But she didn't fall. Wouldn't fall. Couldn't afford to fall.

She could do this. She had to.

She reached the tear in the sky, turning to face the horror behind her, and stretching a helping hand out to the woman with her. At least with this other woman she wouldn't be alone.

But the woman was sliding away. She dove after her, scrambling to grip her hand as monsters beyond description pulled the older woman away.

“Go!” The woman cried.

She went. Because she had to.

Alone.

No one left.

Falling.

Pain. Confusion.

And oh so much fear.

Fear so intense it seemed to burn away the last few hours. Searing her mind. Igniting her memories as though they were written on dry parchment, and leaving nothing but ash behind.

She landed hard. Confused. Everything was foggy and indistinct, and her hand throbbed with a pain that seemed to radiate through her whole body.

There were images all around her. People? It looked like people. Like she was surrounded by people.

But that's not right she thought, there's no one left. Everyone is dead.

I am alone.

And that was the last thought she had for quite some time.

*

The prisoner was a mage.

A mage.

That fact rattled around in his skull and set his teeth on edge. Of course she was a mage. Of course she was. The last time an explosion in a Chantry had rent the sky, it had been a mage. 

Kirkwall. 

Anders. 

Of course this was no different.

He took a deep breath, and splashed icy mountain water on his face from the lake, cleaning some of the sweat and grime off, and trying to banish the nightmares at the same time. That was the past. He wasn't that man anymore. Wouldn't be that man anymore. No one knew if she had anything to do with the explosion. With the rift.

Right. A magical rift and the sole survivor was a mage. Sure. No reason to think either had anything to do with the other! No one could be that naïve.

But she needed to be watched. That wasn't jumping to conclusions, was it?

She probably needed to be kept in jail. They needed to throw away the key. Mages couldn't be trusted. 

The thoughts slipped across his mind before he could stop them. He buried his face in his hands, whispering to himself “You aren't this man anymore. Don't jump to conclusions. Don't see what's not there.”

Innocents die when you jump to conclusions, he told himself, pushing wet hair back from his forehead. And mages are not monsters. You know that. He did. But fear made it hard to remember. The sole survivor, the mage, had been unconscious ever since she was found three days ago. He'd just have to wait and see if she survived. If she did, then perhaps they could all get some answers. And, if she was indeed innocent, she could well be a valuable source of information.

If she survived.

They needed her to survive. If she didn't, they might never know what had happened. And, unless they knew, they had no hope of undoing it. So far, nothing Solas had done had made any measurable different to the rift. And Leliana had not found a single piece of information that could shed light on what had occurred to cause it.

They needed her to survive. More than that, they needed a miracle.

Kneeling on the banks of the lake, he offered up a prayer to Andraste for the prisoner's life, and for all of them.

Straightening up, he looked over the stark frozen countryside of Haven. He could hear the clanging of training continue behind him. He needed to return. And there was a mountain of paperwork to deal with after that. Missives from local Bans regarding local rifts. Villagers streaming in daily needing food and supplies. To say nothing of the constant mage-templar skirmishes that were practically on their doorstep. His head throbbed. But he wouldn't let that stop him. He had pledged himself to the Inquisition. And the people needed him. A headache couldn't be allowed to interfere with his duties.

With a deep sigh, he headed back to work.

*

Rosalind Trevelyan woke shivering on the stone floor of what appeared to be a prison cell. Her hands were bound together, and the left one ached dully. She examined it and felt her stomach roll over in nausea and fear at what she beheld. A green tear. Like the sky, etched in miniature on her hand.

Like the sky? What did that mean? She didn't know. There was something teasing at the edges of her mind. A green sky, and an eldritch voice. But she couldn't make sense of it. Couldn't remember anything. Except that she was alone. Something had happened and now she was alone.

Everyone dead.

She sat up slowly, gripping her left hand in her right, and trying to flex her fingers. A spasm of pain tore up her arm, and the green tear seemed bigger than it had been only a moment ago. She swallowed hard, wondering how big it would get, and what would happen when it did. Bringing her hand closely to eye level, she studied it carefully. But she could see nothing, other than a green tear. Still, with it this close to her face, she could feel something subtle. Like a soft tug of the Fade. Like veilfire. Had there been a veilfire explosion? But why would veilfire cause this kind of wound?

Just then the cell door opened and two women entered. One looked like a thunder-cloud, but Rosalind suspected that the other, the red-head, was far more dangerous, though she couldn't say why.

The thunder-cloud spoke first. “Tell me why we shouldn't just kill you right now? Divine Justinia murdered. Everyone dead. And you the only survivor.” She shouted in a Navarran accent, gripping Rosalind by her shoulder.

Something about the woman suggested 'templar,' but it wasn't quite right. Chantry, for sure. The symbol of the Chantry was emblazoned across her chest.

“Everyone's dead,” Rosalind whispered, knowing it was true, as a lump settled in her throat and tears of fear and pain stung her eyes. Even Maxwell. But she couldn't think about Maxwell now. Not now. She held that thought and her tears back, her mind working furiously, urging her to gain control of herself. She needed to think. She couldn't fall to pieces here, with these two dangerous women.

Her grief seemed only to incense the Navarran further. She shook Rosalind roughly by the shoulder and then seized her left hand in a vice-like grip that spoke of long practice with a sword. “Explain this!” she hissed, shaking the green mark between them hard enough to throw Rosalind off balance.

“I—I can't” Rosalind said.

“You're lying,” the Navarran snarled, shoving Rosalind hard.

This is it, Rosalind thought. She's going to kill me! Gritting her teeth, she pulled viciously on the fade and prepared to fight just as the red head intervened, forcing the Navarran to step back.

“We need her, Cassandra,” the red-head said in a lilting Orlesian accent.

Rosalind released the fade immediately, hoping that the Navarran woman—Cassandra—had not been able to feel her pull on it. Hoping she wasn't about to be punished for preparing to defy a member of the chantry.

The Orlesian red-head turned back to Rosalind, “Do you remember what happened?” she asked.

“No,” Rosalind replied, in a voice that sounded surprisingly steady considering how she felt. “Please, can you tell me?” she asked. The Orlesian still struck her a deceptively dangerous, but perhaps the more sensible of the two.

“It would be easier to show you,” The Navarran said. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will bring her.”

Leliana studied Cassandra for a moment, then nodded and left, Rosalind's heart sinking as she watched her go. Now, she was alone with Cassandra. She carefully drew on the fade, pulling only the tiniest amounts, and using an ancient Dalish spell she'd learned to toughen up her skin, and sharpen her nails. It was an imperceptible tug, and shouldn't be noticeable to someone without the magical sensitivity of a mage. Of course, it also offered very little protection. Still, she felt better for having done something.

It had gone unnoticed by templars before. She hoped this would be the same.

Cassandra seemed unaware. Coming forward she rebound Rosalind's hands in such a way that she could walk, freeing her from the chain that had bound her to the floor. And she led Rosalind outside, to a world turned upside-down by a madness pouring out of the sky.

It's green, Rosalind thought, staring at it in stunned silence as Cassandra related what had happened. My hand really is the sky in miniature. How did I know that?

Another thought dashed across her mind. One should couldn't make sense of at all. Warn them.

But who she was meant to warn, and of what, she had no idea.


	2. Prisoner-Turned-Saviour

“So the breach is closed?” Cullen asked, his voice filled with wonder.

“Yes. Solas says it's temporary. But it is no longer spreading, which should give us something of a reprieve,” Cassandra replied tersely. The tone in her voice couldn't be clearer. It was not yet time to celebrate. Not that it ever really was with Cassandra.

“And the prisoner?” Cullen couldn't bring himself to ask anything more specific.

“I misjudged her, Cullen,” Cassandra said softly. “I admit it. The rift at the Temple showed images of what happened in the last moments of the conclave. It was another who murdered the Divine. She called out to the Lady Trevelyan for help.”

“Who was it?” Josephine broke in.

“No one knows. But the voice was distinct, and it was not the lady's.” Cassandra replied with regret.

“So, we are still no closer to solving the mystery of the Divine's death?” Josephine asked.

“No, but at least the breach is sealed. The immediate threat is behind us.” Leliana replied.

“And the pris—the lady?” Josephine asked, “is she well?”

“I believe she will be,” Cassandra's voice sounding heavy. “She fell unconscious after sealing the breach. But the mark on her hand has stopped spreading. Solas is with her now.” She fell silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had a quality of softness and respect Cullen had never heard from Cassandra before, whose voice usually cracked like a whip. “She was very brave.”

“Ah.” His heart lightened at the news that she had survived, even as the knowledge that there were now not one, but two apostate mages in camp filled his mind with dread. “So, what's our next move?”

“Solas thought we needed more power. That if Lady Trevelyan had enough power to draw upon, she might be able to seal the rift permanently,” Cassandra replied.

“We should go to the templars,” Cullen interjected before anyone could suggest more mages. “Pouring more magic into the rift is a dangerous idea. It could cause further instability. But the templars could channel their suppression through the prisoner—the lady—and close the rift that way.”

“Hmmm,” Cassandra raised an eyebrow, and Cullen suspected she could see right into his mind. He really did fear that pouring more magic into the rift was a mistake. But he also feared having a camp overrun with apostate mages, with no templars to watch them. He'd be lying if he didn't admit that to himself. Much as he knew the circle was deeply flawed, mages were still dangerous. “That might work,” she conceded.

“I disagree,” Leliana replied, her voice deceptively mild. “We don't know if the templar's power will have the desired effect here. We don't even know if Lady Trevelyan can channel templar power through her mark. But we do know she can use the magic the mages could focus on her. The mages are the safer bet here, Commander.”

“There is time to make this decision later,” Josephine interceded smoothly. “We have, as you both say, imperfect information. Perhaps that will improve later.”

“Yes, of course,” Cullen said, leashing his temper and his fear.

“There is one more decision, before we retire for the evening. I would like to welcome Lady Trevelyan to sit in on our meetings,” Cassandra said.

“Oh?” was what Cullen said. What he wanted to say was “Maker's breath, why?”

“Her mark is the only hope we have. Thus, she has just become the most important member of our team. I-I misjudged her in the beginning, and treated her unfairly—“

“That's one way of putting it,” Lelianna said mildly.

Cassandra shot her a glowering look.

“Your first words to her were 'tell me why we shouldn't just kill you right now?'” Lelianna raised one eyebrow.

Cassandra's cheeks coloured faintly, but she held the other woman's gaze. “All the more reason to make her feel welcome. I have to atone for this error, I know. She must trust us if she is to work with us. Including her in our meetings seemed an expedient way of gaining that trust.”

Cullen closed his eyes, wincing against the knowledge that they had a mage in their midst who had been given good reason to fear for her life. Mages are most dangerous when they are cornered, his templar training whispered to him. He ignored it. “It's a good idea,” he said, surprised at how calm his voice sounded.

“I agree” Leliana said. Josephine nodded her assent as well, making some note on her clipboard.

“Then it is settled. I will tell Lady Trevelyan to join us once she has awoken. Until then.” Cassandra swept out, followed by Josephine.

“Leliana,” Cullen called out, an idea striking him, “a word, if you have a moment.”

Leliana paused in the doorway and turned to face him. “Do you want to prevail upon me to see the virtue of approaching the templars instead of the mages?” she asked, a smirk playing about her lips.

“No, I—“

“Then you want to know more about Trevelyan,” she said. It most definitely wasn't a question. Leliana could read people. Of course she could. It was one of the things that made her so good at her job.

Cullen nodded. “I assume you've done research.”

“Of course, Commander.”

“What can you tell me?”

“Lady Rosalind Trevelyan is the youngest of four siblings born to the Trevelyans of Ostwick in the Free Marches. Three older brothers. One of which became a templar, and another a cleric in the Chantry. Her eldest brother is, of course, the family heir. He is basically in charge of the estate now, as her mother has passed away and her father is ailing. While her father still holds the title, it's her eldest brother, Randall, who does all the real governing. But that isn't what you wanted to know, is it?” Her smile deepened.

“No.”

“Her time in the circle?”

Cullen sighed. When she wanted to, Leliana could be insufferable. “Yes, damn it.”

“Her parents surrendered her to the circle when she was sixteen.”

“Sixteen. That's—“

“Old. Yes, I know commander. I don't quite know why,” Leliana frowned, and it was clear that she was disappointed with herself for not having teased out this answer already. “Perhaps her magic manifested late. And there is another oddity.”

“Oh?” he asked, trying the make his voice sound light.

“The lady resisted the surrender, and ran to the Chantry in the middle of a blizzard. An entire squadron of templars was deployed to bring her in, as I take it.”

Cullen felt a band of fear tighten around his chest. “Maker's breath. An entire squadron? For a new apprentice?”

“Yes,” Leliana frowned. “Odd, I know. Still, the unusual weather might have had something to do with it. I remember hearing about the Ostwick summer blizzard. It was quite severe. Several people got frostbite, to say nothing of ruined crops and lost livestock. Quite a hardship on the city for many years. One must thank the Maker that no one died. Needless to say, if the lady ran and was caught in such weather, being noble-born as she is, and with her brother serving in the order, it's quite likely a squadron was deployed simply to find her as quickly as possible, before she became lost in the storm.”

“Yes,” Cullen said softly, the tightness easing, “that seems logical.”

“In any case, her brother Martin, the templar, was transferred to the circle in Starkhaven so that she could be sent to Ostwick.”

“So he was serving in Ostwick?”

“Yes, but not while she was there.”

“And her time in the circle. Did she. . .”

“Did she attempt escape?”

Cullen nodded.

 

“Only once that I could find. The lady ran was right after her Harrowing.”

“After,” Cullen said in surprise, “not before?”

“Definitely after. And here's where things get a bit strange. If you hadn't wanted to talk to me, I would have sought you out in any case.”

“Oh, why is that?” His voice sounded mild, but inside he braced himself. Coming from Leliana, 'a bit strange,' could mean anything. And after the horrors he'd seen in the circle, well, he knew how bad things could get.

“She passed her harrowing with ease but. . .” here she trailed off, furrowing her brow.

“But?” Cullen prompted, feeling a falling sensation in his stomach.

“The report is unusual. Rosalind was harrowed along with two other apprentices.”

“What? Why?” There should only be one at a time.

“Apparently when her brother left, a number of templars transferred with him, or left the order entirely. Martin Trevelyan was well liked, and his transfer from the Ostwick circle left them short-handed. In the end, they simply had no choice but to Harrow more than one mage at the same time. Or, at least, that is what they claim in their records.”

“That is very odd.”

“Indeed, Of the three of them, only Rosalind survived,” Leliana said softly.

Cullen's mouth was dry. “Abomination?”

“The report is vague to the point of frustration. It is clear that Lady Trevelyan passed her Harrowing. And clear that the other two apprentices were killed. The rest. . .” she trailed off, frowning.

“No tranquil?”

“No. Both deceased. It is very strange, Commander. I am looking into it. But all the Circles in the Free Marches have fallen, and records are scattered all over Thedas. Locating a templar from the circle looks even less promising.”

Damn that bloody templar-mage war. You would think having a rift in the sky to deal with would be enough. But no, Cullen thought. However, losing two apprentices in a single night was deeply troubling. They needed an answer as to what had happened. Particularly since the sole survivor of that harrowing was now the best and only hope for all of Thedas.“We should get to the bottom of this. I have a few contacts with the templars who may have known someone serving at Ostwick. I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you. It is possible that Rosalind herself can provide some information.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Asking her about this, or talking to her at all, was not high on Cullen's list. He was flirting with the idea of simply avoiding her entirely until this war was over, provided they all survived that long. “And she ran away after that?”

Leliana nodded. “Almost immediately after, in fact. She was missing for almost a year.”

“A year?” Cullen's blood ran cold. How had she evaded the templars for a year? A mage who could do that. . . was a mage like Anders. “Where was she hiding?”

Leliana frowned. “I don't know, Commander. There is no record.”

“Well, where did the templars find her?”

“They didn't. She returned to them.”

“What?”

“When she was apprehended, she was returning to the circle, with a book.”

“A book?”

“Mmhm. Borrowed from a Keeper in a Dalish encampment outside of Ostwick. She said she needed it, and there was no other way of getting it.”

“And the templars believed her?” Cullen was incredulous.

“There was talk of instability. Of exploring the Tranquil solution. But, as I understand it, her brother intervened on her behalf.”

“The templar? Um. . . Martin?” Cullen asked, searching his memory.

“No, the Chantry brother. Maxwell. The order was willing to listen to him and grant her leniency. She does come from a powerful noble family after all. However, she was kept in solitary confinement for the better part of the next six months, but was allowed to keep the book, read it and making a copy of the parts she was interested in. And after her six months of punishment were done, she was sent with a templar contingent to return the book to the Dalish camp.”

“Which parts were those?”

“What?”

“Which parts did she copy?”

“No one knew. It was written in Dalish.”

“So she. . .”

“Reads Dalish? Evidently. And also Tevene, Orlesian and Revain. Possibly other languages as well. She's a scholar, Commander.”

“Maker's breath,” Cullen said, rubbing the back of his neck. He tried to take a deep breath, relieve some of the anxiety in his chest. “I—is there anything else I should know?”

“No. After her return and confinement she appears to have been a model enchanter for several years. One of the most gifted and widely-studied mages in the Ostwick circle. She regularly sent request for books to be sent from other circle libraries to her own. And she knew and could actually perform some very archaic spells. From what I can tell, our Herald is a very intelligent, and singularly powerful mage.”

“Maker's breath,” he said again.

 

*

He avoided her. He told himself it was because he was giving her the space she needed to rest, and to recover. He told himself it was because she was likely overwhelmed from making the transition from prisoner to savior in twenty-four hours. But it wasn't. He was wary of her. Wary of what she would bring out in him.

Solas was one thing. And while he avoided Solas as much as courtesy would allow, talking with the elf was only mildly uncomfortable. Yes, Solas was a mage, and yes being near him called out Cullen's deeply ingrained templar training. But Solas was not from the circle. Had never been from the circle. Had none of the mannerisms of a circle mage. It made it easier.

He doubted Rosalind would be so easy. Would he fall back on those old habits, and patterns of behaviour around her? Wasn't he already? The first rule of templar training was to distance oneself. What was he currently doing if not that?

It didn't matter anyway. Whatever his motivations, he couldn't keep himself separate from her. Not after Cassandra's decision to include her in their war-meetings.

And so it was that, less than four days after she had closed the breach and been christened as the Herald of Andraste, she walked into their war-room and stood before him. The meeting had not yet begun, the other three not yet present. She hesitated in the doorway, dark inscrutable eyes scanning the room, noting everything. Everything but him. Her eyes politely skimmed over him, and dismissed him, as though he were part of the furniture.

Cullen frowned. Whatever reaction he had been expecting upon their first meeting, this was not it. He waited, shifting from foot to foot, and trying to catch her eye, but he could not. Finally, the awkwardness of the situation was too much for him.

“Uh, hello my lady” Cullen said awkwardly. “I don't think we've been properly introduced.”

She raised her eyes to meet his. They were flat, giving no clue as to what she was thinking. Dark black pools that he couldn't read. “No,” she said lightly, though her voice carried through the whole room, “we have not.” She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing more. Neither offering her name, nor inquiring as to his, nor extending her hand. She stood there, in the doorway, motionless. Evidently, the next move was his.

“I—I've heard much about you, Lady Trevelyan” Cullen said, desperately trying to steer the conversation towards something resembling. . . well. . . a conversation.

“Is that so? It seems you have me at a disadvantage, ser.” Her eyes were still disconcertingly fixed on him. He found himself wishing she would dismiss him as furniture again.

The room suddenly felt uncomfortably warm. There was no anger in her face, no edge to her voice at all, but he felt as though he were walking on thin ice over a raging river. “My name is Cullen Rutherford and I am—“ but as he spoke his name, he saw a spark of recognition in those fathomless eyes, followed by something else. Terror. Gone in a moment. But he knew he hadn't imagined it.

“You're the knight-captain,” she whispered, shoulders stiffening. Was that the reason for her terror? She recognized his name from his post in Kirkwall?

“No, my lady,” he said gently. “That is not my title anymore.” Perhaps if he said it often enough, he could convince not only others, but also himself. He clung to this simple statement, willing it to be true. “I left the templars a year ago.”

Her eyebrows raised again, but she said nothing else.

Fortunately Cassandra swept in at that moment, followed closely by Josephine and Leliana, who were gossiping amongst themselves, much to Cassandra's disgust. Introductions were made, but Cullen carefully watched this new woman's face. It still betrayed nothing. Flat, expressionless.

Guarded.

Holding herself back. She was polite, but just short of friendly. When asked, she offered helpful suggestions and seemed to have a startlingly brilliant tactical mind. But she took no initiative. She answered questions, but did not freely offer any information unless it was directly requested of her.

Rosalind Trevelyan did not trust them. She had not yet decided whether she could be honest with them. She was watching them.

Cassandra was right. They needed Rosalind's trust. But would she trust him if she thought of him as the Knight-Captain from Kirkwall? It seemed unlikely. He needed to make her understand that he wasn't that man anymore. He wasn't.

And he didn't want to see terror in her eyes when she looked at him again. He wanted, needed, to be worthy of her trust. As though gaining her trust could undo all the things he had done, and had allowed to be done under his watch, for over a decade in Kirkwall.

He needed to speak with her.

Towards the end of the meeting, their discussion returned to the rift. Once again, Leliana supported the idea of approaching those cursed apostates from Redcliffe. And once again, Cullen refused.

“I still think our best option is the templars.” he said. “We don't know if it's safe to pour more magic into that rift. We don't know what it could do.”

“And we don't even know if templar abilities will be of any help in closing the breach,” Cassandra countered. “They may not have the ability—“

Cullen almost laughed aloud at that, remembering all to vividly the fateful night in Kirkwall when the circle had fallen. Remembering the abilities his templar brothers and sisters—former brothers and sisters—had. He turned to face Cassandra, leashing his emotions as best he could, and hissed through gritted teeth, in a voice that sounded surprisingly ugly and savage to his own ears “I was a templar, remember? I know what they are capable of.”

The room fell silent. If it hadn't, he might not have heard the sharp intake of breath that followed his comment. Not from Cassandra. She was all too used to dealing with his temper, and remained unfazed. And certainly not from Leliana, who was unlikely to ever view him as a threat.

It could have been from Josephine, a woman he did not yet know terribly well, and whose talents and duties rarely required any close interaction with him. But he knew it wasn't.

It was Rosalind.

He turned slowly to look at her. But the moment he met her gaze, her eyes slid away from his again. Dismissing him as she had at first.

No, not dismissing him. Avoiding him.

Like a mage would a templar. Her face carefully neutral. A studied and practiced neutrality. Hands clasped behind her back, and only a tension in her shoulders and the slight gasp a moment ago gave away any of her misgivings.

He'd forgotten that the studied avoidance went both ways. Forgotten that it was rare for a mage to acknowledge his existence. The mages in Kinloch Circle and in Kirkwall had always acted such, going about their business under his watchful eyes, and never meeting his gaze. Pretending, desperately, that he wasn't there so that their lives could have some semblance of normality. Pretending that their jailor, and possible executioner, didn't hover over them wherever they went. 

Until Ulrich. . . that night. . . no, don't think of it. He took a deep breath and turned away from Rosalind's practiced indifference, pushing his fears to the back of his mind. But, he could see out of the corner of his eyes that Leliana was studying Lady Trevelyan carefully. And he knew she had seen what he had.

Cassandra, predictably, had not. “What do you think, my lady?” she asked, turning to face Rosalind herself.

“Sorry, what?” Rosalind frowned, almost meeting Cassandra's gaze.

“Who do you think we should approach in this matter?”

“You're asking me?” a note of incredulity had crept into her voice, her eyes flickering between Cassandra, Leliana and himself. “Why?”

“You will be the one to channel the power,” Cassandra was getting exasperated. “Surely you must have an opinion on the matter?”

“Is it common practice to ask your prisoner for their opinion on their own captivity?” she shot back, a flush darkening her cheeks.

Cullen couldn't be certain, of course. But he suspected that this sudden reference to her own captivity was deliberate. She was trying to change the subject. Trying to deflect attention away from the question posed to her. Trying to avoid answering it.

And—Cassandra being who she was—it worked.

She took the bait, with genuine anger and frustration in her voice. “I was in error, in capturing you and in threatening you. For both, I have apologized. I stood up for you with Chancellor Roderick. You have not been in chains since I released you to enlist your aid in closing the breach. Obviously you are not a prisoner. I see no need to dwell on it any further. You have agreed to work with the Inquisition, freely.”

“You, and this mark,” Rosalind gestured at her left hand, “didn't really give me a choice. It was hardly a free decision.”

“Enough,” broke in Josephine. “This bickering is pointless. We cannot safely approach either the mages or templars right now. We need to build our influence and reputation in order to be taken seriously by either group. There's time enough to decide all this later.”

“I agree,” Cullen said, thankful for the diplomat's cool head.

“Of course, you are right Josie,” Leliana chimed in, smiling one of her rare genuine smiles. “And I think I can help on that score. I've had a request from a chantry mother. Mother Giselle, who would like to meet Lady Trevelyan. Everyone is calling her the 'Herald of Andraste,' and mother Giselle would like to put a face to the title.”

“Everyone's calling me what?” Rosalind burst out, a genuine expression of shock painted across her face.

“Rumors of your survival, and of the shadowy woman seen in the fade behind you, have traveled across Thedas. Some people believe her to have been Andraste. They believe you were saved by Andraste, and sent here to do her work.” Cassandra supplied.

Rosalind ran a hand through her hair, rumpling her short, white-blonde locks. “That's, uh, well. . . shit.”

Cullen smirked. “Not happy about the new title?” he asked, enjoying watching her face now that the impersonal mask she had been wearing had slipped away. She really is quite pretty, he thought.

“I—I wasn't really looking for another title,” she replied with a rueful smile, “especially not one so blasphemous.”

“Blasphemous, maybe. But useful, no?” Leliana shrugged. “In any case, much of the Chantry has decried us as heretics. But Mother Giselle wields a lot of influence in the Chantry, and she would like to see you for herself.”

“So she can burn me as a heretic in person?” Roaslind quipped.

“I doubt it,” Leliana said mildly. “My sources indicate that she seems quite genuine. I believe it is perfectly safe. I think you should go.”

“I agree,” Josephine said. “This could be exactly what we need to influence the people.”

Rosalind looked around the group, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. Like a hunted animal who wasn't quite ready to give up, she squared her shoulder and then nodded. “If you all think it best, then I'll go,” she said. The impersonal mask was back in place. Cullen found he oddly missed the animated face that he now knew lay behind it.

“Wonderful,” Josephine smiled a smile full of genuine warmth and made a note on her clip board.

“I will accompany you,” Cassandra added. Rosalind closed her eyes briefly, but nodded her assent.

“Then, if there is nothing else?” Josephine asked. Met with silence, she nodded, “until next time, then.”

They filed out of the office. Rosalind disappeared before Cullen hit the great hall. He didn't see where she went, but she made her escape.

“She seems willing enough to help us,” Cassandra said, coming up behind him, with a look of approval on her face.

“Indeed,” Leliana smirked, meeting his eye with a knowing look.

“I think this will work well,” Cassandra said, marching off to the training fields.

Leliana shook her head, laughing. “She sees what she wants to, no?”

“Yes, well,” Cullen replied awkwardly.

But she headed off as well, giving him a soft pat on the arm. Josephine, too, headed for her office, her nose already buried in papers.

Cullen sighed, remembering the piles of papers that awaited him in his own quarters. Pushing thoughts of Rosalind aside, he headed out.


	3. lyrium-kissed

Today, Rosalind said to herself, on the morning of the eighth day since she'd sealed the breach and vaulted from public enemy number one to Chantry saint in the same of twenty-four hours. You're going to do it today.

She didn't like to avoid things. Had never liked to. If something was going to come to a head, she tended to force it there. Get the fight out in the open. Deal with it. But she'd been avoiding Cullen for the past eight days. Skirting past him. Disappearing into shadows.

Today, she repeated, staring at the ceiling of her cabin as the first shafts of sunlight broke through. Enough was enough. They said she wasn't a prisoner, but templars always said that. She didn't know the rules. Didn't know where she stood. Really, she expected that no one knew. With a giant tear in the sky, rules had probably fallen by the wayside.

And the breach needed to be closed. No one was safe, including her own family, until that happened. Like it or not, her mark seemed the only way to deal with it. Which meant she needed to know who she could trust. Fast. Which, of course, meant speaking to them.

More specifically, speaking to him.

“Argh” she huffed, covering her eyes with her hands in exasperation. Cassandra was brash and a bit insensitive, and Leliana was unsettlingly perceptive. But she could navigate some semblance of a conversation with both of them. She was beginning to understand them. While not exactly friends with either, she was fairly certain that she wasn't their enemy.

Leliana had stood up for her with Cassandra that first day, intervening before Cassandra could crack her skull open on the dungeon floor like a pumpkin. And Cassandra had intervened before that weasily Chancellor Roderick could clap her in irons again and send her off to a new dungeon to await a new head-bludgenioning. While neither necessarily had her best interests at heart, Rosalind did think either bore her an ill will.

The commander, though. . .

Everything about the commander screamed 'templar'. The way he carried himself, the way he barked orders, the way he watched her, warily, carefully, with his hand always resting on his pommel. As though prepared to strike the moment she sprouted extra limbs or used blood magic. Or, you know, acted in any way displeasing or frightening to him. If you stepped out of line. If you were, in any way, unpredictable. If you appeared rebellious or willful. If you had a mind of your own. The lessons of the Circle came back to her with full force, even now, three years since Ostwick's circle had fallen.

Don't draw attention to yourself. Don't cause problems. Don't make waves. Don't be unusual. There's always an excuse. Don't given them a reason.

“No,” she said aloud. “That isn't fair. It isn't their fault. Magic is dangerous.”

Magic is dangerous. It was a truth she could scarcely deny, after all she'd seen. All she'd done. Could templars really afford not to strike, even when they were uncertain? Even when all you'd done was go in search of a book? Could they afford to be lenient. No, they had to error on the side of caution. It wasn't their fault. Their wariness in her presence was fully understandable.

But Maker's breath she was tired of people looking at her with fear. She was tired of holding herself in check. And she was tired of watching her back. If she was going to survive this (there's a big 'if') she couldn't afford to have her attention divided. And she had a promise to keep. Magic is meant to serve. The Breach had to be her focus, which meant she had to know she could trust the people with her.

Today, she repeated again in her head as she swung out of bed. Do it today. She needed to know just how afraid he was. And just how far he might be willing to go. She needed to know, now, the ramifications for stepping out of line.

Nodding to herself, and squaring her shoulders, she headed out into the early morning light.

*

Cullen enjoyed the early morning. Well, he tried to enjoy the early morning. Often up before others, rarely able to sleep more than a few hours before nightmares drove him from he bed, he had learned to embrace the quiet solitude that came with these early hours. To appreciate the peace found there. He was trying to be grateful for it. To thank the Maker that the torture that had so thoroughly taken over his nights was at least rewarded every morning by a tranquil dawn. He tried, but some days it was bloody hard.

This morning, as he went through his morning exercises and combat drills alone, in the quiet, he found his thoughts drifting to Lady Trevelyan. She, Cassandra, Solas and Varric would be leaving for an extended trip to the Hinterlands in a day or two. Between Mother Giselle, multiple reports of rift activity, starving refugees and the Inquisition's own pressing need for supplies, Cassandra had decided an extended trip was the best course of action. Rosalind, as always, had agreed to whatever they asked of her. Warily, yes. But she'd agreed. Preparations for this trip had taken the better part of a week, and he still hadn't spoken more that two-dozen words to her, most of those in the War Room.

She still avoided him. Cassandra seemed well satisfied with Rosalind's willingness to work with the Inquisition, but Cullen had his reservations. Whenever he caught her looking at him, or at anyone for that matter, it always seemed as though she were sizing them up. Figuring them out. As though they were a puzzle she was painstakingly putting together. Her willingness to cooperate seemed to come less from a place of good will and trust and more from a desire to play along until she had the answers she needed.

He'd voiced his concerns to Leliana only the night before, and she'd agreed with him. “Oh absolutely,” she said. “It is undeniably clear that the lady Trevelyan has yet to make her mind up about us. But what does it matter?” She smiled, “she is helping us do the Maker's work. We don't need her to trust us. We need her as a symbol.”

“And what if she decides not to be our symbol anymore?” Cullen had asked.

“Unlikely. Solas tells me the mark on her hand is tied to the rift. Until it is properly sealed, her life is at risk from that mark. So, it is in her best interest to work with us, no? Stop worrying, Commander. She's a scholar, remember. She'll see reason, of that I am sure.”

But, perversely, Cullen didn't want Rosalind to see reason. He wanted her trust. As though, winning her over would prove he was the man he claimed to be. I should speak to her, he said to himself for the hundredth time. But he wasn't sure how to go about it when she was so carefully avoiding him. He didn't want to intrude. Didn't want to force his presence on her.

Lost in his own thoughts, he almost didn't notice her, loitering at the edges of the practice fields which were slowly filling up with other recruits. But there she was, watching him again. He stilled in surprise, staring back.

Evidently that was all the invitation she needed. She came towards him swiftly, stopping a few feet away and pinning him with those black black eyes. She said in a voice filled with forced casualness “it occurs to me that I have not had much opportunity to speak with you, Commander. Have you broken your fast already?”

“I have,” Cullen responded automatically.

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Oh, ah. Well, then I suppose I can't invite you to break it with me. Another time, perhaps?”

Idiot, he thought. “N-no. I mean, yes. I mean you can. W—well you can't, as I have eaten. But I'd like that. Today, I mean.” he replied in a rush, his words tripping over a tongue that seemed to only exist to get in his way.

“Sorry?” She said, her lips twitching slightly, as though she were fighting off a smirk.

“Forgive me,” he rubbed at his brow with his fingers, wondering why she had such a power to unnerve him, “I don't seem to be entirely awake this morning. Perhaps I could join you for coffee?” Better he thought. At least that was a coherent sentence. But Maker's breath it was hard to think when she was so intently focused on him.

“I don't want to impose, Commander.”

“My lady, it is no imposition. I could clearly benefit from another cup of coffee, and would welcome the opportunity to speak with you.”

“Good,” she said.

“Good. Yes. Shall we?” Cullen asked, offering her his arm and feeling immediately foolish for doing so. This is a military camp, not a ball. What are you doing?

At that she did smirk, her dark eyes dancing wickedly. The expression transformed her features, and sent a jolt of desire through Cullen's belly. He stiffened in surprise, hoping she hadn't noticed, and that she also would fail to notice the embarrassed flush he was fairly certain was creeping across his cheeks.

She held his gaze for a long moment, before dropping a perfect curtsey, and resting her fingers lightly in the crook of his arm, but she said nothing. Cullen's cheeks felt like they were scalding, and he didn't trust his tongue to work at all. Silently, and feeling like a bloody fool. he led her to the mess hall as though escorting her to a fine dinner party, instead.

A few moments later they were seated in a quiet corner of the tent, her with a bowl of porridge, and him with a mug of coffee. He didn't really want it, but at least it gave his hands something to do.

“So,” she said after a few mouthfuls of the porridge, “how did you come to join the Inquisition?”

“I was working at the Circle in Kirkwall, as acting knight-commander after. . .” he trailed off. This was not what he'd been hoping for. His plan had been to engage in small talk. Light. Innocent. Something innocuous upon which the foundation for trust might be built.

She was studying him again with her head cocked to one side. “I read about what happened there. Everyone did. It seemed. . . important to know what had happened, and why. You're lucky you survived, from the sounds of it,” she said finally in a voice full of sympathy, acknowledging that she knew the Kirkwall story. “But how did you get here?”

“Yes. . .” Cullen swallowed, pushing the memories to the back of his mind, grateful for her redirection of the conversation. “Cassandra was there investigating. . . well. . .investigating. She recruited me. Offered me a position here as Commander of the Inquisition's forces.”

“And you took it?”

“Yes, obviously. As I am here, after all.”

She smirked again, looking at once childish and charming. He wondered if he could get her to smirk more often. And then immediately scolded himself for wondering that. She was a recent prisoner turned holy figure. The answer to their prayers. Thinking about her smirking was highly inappropriate.

“Why?” She asked.

“I—I wanted to do some good,” he replied, thinking it sounded foolish and naive even as he said it. He looked away from her, fiddling with the handle of his coffee mug.

“Did you not believe your work as a templar was doing good?”

“Not exactly,” Cullen weighed his words carefully, still not looking up, conscious that everything he said was being closely considered by her. “I have a great respect for the work templars do. But I could no longer follow that path.”

“Why not?”

Why not? The memories of his anger, his fear, his need for revenge assaulted him. But he didn't know how to give voice to them. When Meredith had enacted the rite of annulment there had been a part of him—a small part, but still a part—that had agreed. There had been a part of him that though all mages should just be put to the sword in the cradle. That things would be simpler if they were. “I did not like the man I had become,” he answered finally. And if it wasn't the whole truth, it was as honest as he could be to her right now. He glanced up at her then, needing to see how she reacted to this near-confession.

Her face softened, and she nodded as though she understood. “Mages are people trapped as weapons. How does a templar see the person in the weapon, and weapon in the person, and retain his own humanity? How does a templar choose?” she mused, staring off into the distance. “Between public security and mage freedom? Between danger and autonomy? How can they bear to choose what to do?” She frowned, her expression an unexpected mixture of regret and frustration.

It wasn't obviously a question directed at him, or at anyone. But he found himself speaking anyway, “I wish I knew, my lady.”

Her eyes came back to him. “Me too,” she said softly. “It's the templar's burden, isn't it?”

Silence descended between them as Cullen turned her words over in his head, marveling at them. Whatever he had expected from Lady Trevelyan, it hadn't been this. It hadn't been sympathy, or understanding. If she understood the burden templars faced, perhaps they could come to trust each other.

He had to try. After a moment, Cullen took his courage in both hands and plunged into small talk again. “Tell me about yourself.”

“You said you had already heard about me,” she pointed out, smirking again, just as delightful as before, “Your spymaster probably knows things about myself that I've forgotten. What could I tell you that she hasn't already?”

Where did you hide from the Templars? And how?, Cullen thought, but he shrugged. Now was not the time. “I'd like to hear your story from you.”

“Fair enough. Ask,” she said.

Striving for something light and conversational, he said “I hear you're from the Ostwick Circle.”

“Yes.”

“Uh . . . it must be strange to be so far away?”

She arched an eyebrow and pulled a face, her eyes lit with amusement “There's a rift in the sky, Commander. Everything is strange.”

He chuckled softly in spite of himself. It sounded rusty to his ears, and he tried to recall the last time he'd really laughed. “Yes, I take your point. What I mean is, it must be odd to be . . . to be away from home. Outside of the Circle.” Damn, this wasn't right. They were back to talking about the circle again.

“Would you rather I was locked up in the Circle now? Where mages belong?” Her voice was still calm, light, but her eyes had become flat and unreadable again. All the amusement and warmth of a few moments ago gone. And Cullen again had the sensation of being on thin ice over a raging river.

“I—no”

“Because you aren't a templar any longer?”

No, this was all wrong. Fix it. “My lady, whatever you think—“

“I think you are afraid of me,” she said abruptly, cutting him off. “And I know that I am afraid of you.”

There was an undeniable truth to her words. A truth he'd thought they were going to avoid admitting to each other. A truth he'd hoped they could dance around, and ignore, until it was no longer true. But there it was. Laid bare before them in the bright morning light. No hiding. No dancing around. No denying. And she was right. He was afraid.

Cullen's stomach twisted violently. He felt sick. He didn't want to be afraid of her. And the thought of any mage being fearful of him was not something he wanted to consider. It reminded him of too many things he'd rather forget. But the thought of her being afraid of him was almost unbearable, though he couldn't quite say why.

But she didn't look afraid. She looked determined. Fearless. She was meeting his gaze steadily, not flinching from this truth that lay painfully exposed between them. “Am I wrong, Commander?”

No, you are not wrong he thought, remembering all the things he had seen mages do in the past. Remembering Anders. Remembering Ulrich—Don't think about that! Remembering his own fear and anger when he learned that it was a mage who had fallen out of the rift. And remembering too, that she had good reason to fear him. Remembering the ways in which templars abused their power. Remembering Meredith.

But he said none of those things. Didn't know how to say those things. “Forgive me, Lady Trevelyan,” he said softly, “perhaps we should avoid talking about Circles in future.”

She sighed, dropped her gaze and shook her head, and he had the distinct impression that he'd disappointed her. “How can we?” she said with regret. “We are what we are. And so the Circle stands between us.”

It was true. And it hit him like a cold fist. His anger. Her wariness. The circles may have fallen. He may have left the order. But had anything really changed? I am not that man anymore!

“I—I need to get back to my duties, I'm afraid,” he stammered, desperate to make a retreat.

“Of course, Commander. I should not have taken so much of your valuable time,” she nodded, glancing at him briefly with a flat expression.

Don't leave it here he thought to himself. He hesitated there before her, cold coffee cradled loosely in one hand while the other rubbed the back of his neck. There was pressure building behind his eyes, and the ghost of last night's torments lurking in his mind. But he had to say something. He had to reach her somehow. He couldn't quite say why it was so important to earn her trust, but it was. So he hesitated, his mind thrashing around desperately for a new topic. Something. Anything that would allow him a firm footing.

He may have left the order, and the circle may have fallen. But she was a mage, and she had good reason to fear him. And he had ample reason to fear her (don't think of Kinloch Hold! Don't!). He sighed, rubbing his hand across his forehead again, in a futile attempt to banish the memories. He wanted to, needed to believe he could put that life behind him. That he could work with Rosalind as a colleague, and not as a jailor/protector. But could mages and templars ever work together? Mages and templars are warring on our borders right now. . .

Suddenly, he found a topic. “You will be leaving for the hinterlands soon?”

“Yes,” she replied, still staring into her oatmeal bowl.

“Ah, my lady, forgive me but, do you know how to fight templars?”

Her eyes came up at that eyebrows rising to disappear beneath her unruly white-blond hair. She studied him for a long moment, before replying carefully, “I've had some experience. But I would not say I'm proficient at it.”

“I think you'd best get proficient, my lady. There are many rogue templars out there.”

“Are you offering to train me?” Rosalind asked, eyes growing wide in surprise.

“I,” he hadn't considered that. But it wasn't a bad idea. On the training ground he wouldn't have to flounder around for small talk while she pinned him with those eyes. Before he could second-guess, or really consider the horror of the idea of training a mage to fight templars, he spoke. “Yes, I would be glad to assist if you think that would be useful.”

“Today?”

“Mid-day, my lady?”

Rosalind nodded.

“Until then,” Cullen said, “I'll take my leave of you.”

“Thank you, Commander.” She rose with him as he turned to go, “this is. . . an unexpected kindness. I confess that I didn't think a templar would be willing to teach me how to fight templars.”

“I'm not a templar any longer, my lady,” Cullen replied. And it had never sounded more true to his own ears than it did then.

“No,” she mused softly, those dark eyes still studying him, but her face wearing an expression of open curiosity now. Not guarded. Not blank. “No, you really aren't.”

Cullen turned and left, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders that he hadn't even been aware was there.

*

 

She approached him cautiously around mid-day. Curious, but wary. “Commander,” she said, her eyes catching his and then sliding away again, studying her own hands, “this is extraordinarily kind of you. If you'd rather not. . .”

“It's not a kindness,” Cullen said quietly. “It's necessary.” He'd been thinking about it all morning. Really, what they'd been about to do was madness. Sending their only hope of closing the breach out into the world without a clue as to whether she could fight at all, let alone fight the hoards of rogue templars roaming the wilderness. While his templar-trained mind shuddered at the idea of specifically helping a mage to counter templar abilities, they needed Trevelyan to survive. The breach trumped all other concerns.

So, steeling himself to do what his templar training forbade him to, Cullen continued. “You said you'd had, ah, some experience fighting templars. So, what can you do?”

“Against a templar?” She asked, and her voice held a slight tremor to it, but she raised her eyes and lifted her chin, holding his gaze steady, “not much, Commander. Their abilities are, after all, designed to incapacitate me.”

“Indeed,” Cullen frowned, “but we should be able to think of some ways for you to work around that.”

She nodded.

The next part was going to be hard. Cullen took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “The most effective weapon a templar has against you is the smite. These leave you incapacitated, and unable to cast. Have you felt the effects of these before?”

She hesitated a moment too long before replying, “yes.”

She must have run afoul of rogue templars before the Conclave, Cullen thought, feeling a stab of anger at his former brothers and sisters for disrespecting the vows of the order. But he pushed those thoughts away, and focused on the task at hand. “With your permission, I will perform the technique on you now, and we'll see how quickly you can recover your mana, your connection to the fade, and your footing. That should give us a baseline to begin working out a strategy for you. Agreed?”

She unhooked an old battered staff from her back, raised her chin and nodded. Nothing on her face or in her posture betrayed any emotion, save for a slight whitening of her knuckles on her staff. He stared at her knuckles, remembering her words from that morning.

I think you are afraid of me, and I know that I'm afraid of you.

But she was here, and she was waiting for him to smite her. And it struck Cullen that that in itself took extraordinary courage. He took a deep breath and called down a smite. Not a strong one, but a serious one all the same. He may not drink lyrium anymore, but the smite should be sufficient to bring her to her knees.

It hit in a flash of white light and Rosalind's body jerked under the force of it. She staggered, but planted her staff in the ground and did not fall. She continued pinning him with those black black eyes.

“It appears you'll need more than that, Commander,” She said lightly, arching an eyebrow.

“Are you sure? My lady one smite is usually enough for a mage to take—“

He was cut off by a bolt of ice flying from her hand and shattering into the nearby walls of Haven. “I'm sure,” she said, as the hairs on Cullen's arms began to rise as his throat constricted with fear. True, he hadn't given her a hard smite, but he hadn't gone soft on her either. This woman must have massive reserves of mana to still be able to cast. She must have seen something in his face, because her expression softened at once.

She ran the fingers of her free hand through her hair, suddenly looking nervous. “I—I should explain, Commander. . . “ but she trailed off, chewing her lip.

Cullen had to clear his throat twice, and resist the urge to rub at the cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck. Fool, he chastised himself, she hasn't done anything to you yet. There's not reason to be fearful. But he managed to collect himself enough to speak. “Please do. That was. . .” terrifying, “ah—unexpected.” He finished, lamely.

“I. . .” she chewed her lip again, hesitating, obviously calculating whether or not to reveal something to him. He waiting, praying that she would trust him.

After what felt like an eternity, she began speaking again. “I read about that technique. I'd practiced it with other mages after the circle fell, in case we were ever set upon by rogue templars. But I'd never practiced it with a real templar, or after a real smite. That was harder than I thought. Everything felt so weak after the smite hit. I'd forgotten they feel like that.”

“What technique?” Cullen asked, sweat prickling all down his spine now.

“A way to counter the smite,” she replied in a steady voice, eyes defiant now. “It was an old technique,” she said, “I didn't know if it would work. But I should have warned you. I am sorry.”

“That would be—“ horrifying, “useful, if such a thing were possible. How does it work?” Would she tell him how she'd withstood the smite? Did she trust him enough for that?

She hesitated again, but only for a moment. “The smite is talked about like a sharp break. Like it severs the mage from the Fade, correct? But the thing is, it doesn't work that way.” The more she talked, the more animated she became. A scholar indeed. Cullen thought, but he didn't interrupt. “A mage's connection to the fade is like a connection to the air they breathe, or water. And you can't break water. It flows around. It finds a way. So, the idea is to be like air or water. When a smite hits, every instinct a mage has tells her to fight. It feels like cutting off the air. Like drowning. But if you don't struggle, if you let the smite take what it wants and don't fight back, you can bend and not break. And then you have enough energy to fight back after it's passed. The energy flows back faster. Like water.” She smiled, and it occurred to Cullen that this was perhaps the first genuine smile he'd seen from her. “Of course, you were going easy on me. Still,” she dropped her gaze for a moment, uncertain, “I'd like to try again, if you're willing?”

He cleared his throat, leashed his fear and nodded. After all, this was what they were here for, and this technique might well save her life, and by extension save them all. “Very well, my lady. If you are ready?”

“A more powerful smite, this time?” she asked.

Cullen drew a sharp breath. “Are you sure, Lady Trevelyan?”

She nodded again, settling into her fighting stance.

Cullen called down another smite. Larger. The kind he would have used in Kirkwall to deal with rebel mages. The kind used to lay a mage flat.

Again, the white light hit her with a fury. Rosalind shook, then stumbled. Went down to her knees. But was already rising by the time the light ebbed away. Shaking, but rising.

Cullen's mouth went dry as he saw the determination and delight in her gaze. She was panting hard, but smiling. “It works,” she said. “That's good to know.”

“Can you cast?” he asked.

She paused for a moment, obviously searching for her connection to the Fade, then shook her head. “Maybe a snow-flake, but nothing of substance.”

“Still,” Cullen said, his mind immediately going to tactics, “you are standing. And you've taken two smites at this point. That in itself is an achievement. Perhaps we can build on it. How are you with hand-to-hand combat?”

“Again, I've only ever read the theory and practiced with other rogue mages. So, probably not terribly gifted!” She smirked again, “none of us knew what we were doing, and illustrations are only so helpful.”

“If you became proficient, you could defend yourself long enough for someone to come to your aid, or for your mana to return,” Cullen said, tapping his fingers against his chin, lost in thought.

“Do you. . .” Rosalind hesitated again, but this seemed less a matter of wishing not to divulge too much, and more a matter of being lost in thought. Her eyes were on his shield, “do you always angle it down like that, when fighting, I mean?”

“I. . . yes” Cullen replied, wondering where her mind was taking her.

“Why? It leaves your neck and collar horribly exposed. I could,” she'd closed the distance between them and had her staff against his neck in a moment. “Isn't that dangerous?”

Cullen resisted the urge to pull away, to strike, to retaliate, reminding himself that he was training her. Teaching her. “It is,” he said evenly, “but there are other dangers that are often more pressing for a templar.”

“Oh,” she sounded confused, but understanding filled her black eyes in a moment, “oh, spells.”

Well, she figured that out on her own, I didn't tell her. So that's okay. Cullen said to himself, trying to allay his guilt for divulging templar practices and secrets.

“So,” she spoke slowly, removed her staff, and began pacing around the practice field, “if a templar thought I was casting, they would lower their shield, right? And if a templar encountered a mage who didn't fall under a smite, they might think her capable of casting, right?”

“That seems reasonable, my lady.”

“So, if I feinted casting, I could close the distance and strike the neck?”

“Perhaps, but most templars would be wearing armor to protect them. No, that may not work. But, provided you could move fast enough, you might be able to trip your opponent, which would give you an opportunity to get away.”

“Excellent, how?”

Cullen and Rosalind spent the next twenty minutes devising a way to use Cullen's own body against him, tripping him and sending him sprawling. Rosalind was a diligent and observant student, setting a very high standard for herself. While not the most proficient at physical combat, having only ever practiced with other untrained mages, she paid close attention and learned quickly. Cullen had to admit he was impressed when, after several attempts, she was fairly good at hooking her staff against his coller-bone, hooking her foot behind his ankle, and sending him down. A quick shift on the staff allowed it to be positioned at his throat as he fell, and prevented it from getting caught between his shield and his chest.

“I think you have it, my lady,” Cullen said, feeling please with the afternoon's work, and forgetting for a moment that he was teaching a mage to incapacitate a templar.

“So, I'm ready to try it with a real smite then?” Rosalind asked.

The question took Cullen by surprise, and he nearly choked on a gasp he struggled to hide from her. “Ah. . . are you sure?” Cullen frowned. “You've taken two smites already. Perhaps you should rest.”

A look of steely determination glinted in her eye. “I need to be able to do this in two days, Commander. I don't really have the luxury of rest, do I?”

Cullen sighed, but nodded. Leliana had claimed that Rosalind would see reason. That appeared to be amply true. “I take your point, my lady.”

She nodded, and pulled a bottle of lyrium from her pocket. Gulping it all in one go, she shifting once more into her stance.

Cullen ignored the lyrium and called down his third smite, making it as strong as he could, though he knew it wasn't quite as strong as the second. The cost of casting smite was taking a toll on his body, and there was no lyrium to offset the cost. Except there was. Just out of reach in her pocket. He ignored that thought too, concentrating on the battle.

The smite was enough to stagger her, sending her to one knee momentarily. Again, she was rising before the energy dissipated. Her staff came up in an arch as she found her feet and he instinctively set his shield low to block whatever she was casting.

It was a feint, just as they'd discussed. But such a prefect feint that had his templar-trained instincts responding before thought. Though her staff moved as though to cast, nothing happened. But by the time he registered that nothing had happened, she had moved to his left and slightly behind him, with a speed he didn't think was possible, hooking her foot behind his own, and bringing her staff up to crash against his collar, neatly tripping him over her foot.

As he tipped over backwards he saw the moment she realized her mistake, her limbs shaking from the residual effects of the smite were unable to pull the staff back before it was caught between his collar and his shield. She was unable to perform the neat twist that would have left the butt of the staff pressed against his throat. Unable to shift her grip, she lost her balance. He tipped over, and she did too, landing hard half on top of him, half to the left, with her foot awkwardly caught behind his own.

Shield and staff were between them, but her face was still less than a foot away from his when they landed. Her lips parted above his in a gasp of surprise. Her breath ghosted across his cheek. The edges of her short white-blond hair tickled his brow.

Kiss her. The thought came out of nowhere.

He could do it too. All he had to do was let go of the practice sword, bring his right hand around, cup the back of her neck, and draw her a foot closer. Just a foot.

He wanted to. Maker's breath, he wanted to. Couldn't remember ever wanting anything more.

Except lyrium.

He'd already let go of the sword, and couldn't remember doing it. His hand was already in motion, when she spoke.

“I'm sorry,” she laughed, lips twitching into a smirk, “that was. . . less than proficient.” She scrambled off of him and his hand froze in mid-air, just above where she'd been.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, sitting up beside him and ignoring his hovering hand, which he hastily used to rub his forehead.

“No, my lady,” he sat up too. “Are you?”

She shook her head, biting her lip.

“That was. . . what was that?” Cullen asked trying desperately to stop thinking about what he'd almost done. She's a mage. She's Andraste's chosen. What WERE you thinking?! He silently shouted to himself.

“Fade step,” she replied, with another soft laugh. “It occurred to me that I could use whatever connection I had left to the fade after the smite to close the distance between us more quickly. Evidently I was right. So, I just need become accustomed to the shaking and weakening in the limbs so I don't get tangled in the shield.” She tapped her fingers against her lips for a moment, lost in thought. “Yes, I think I could learn to do it. Thank you Commander. Should we try again?”

“Ah. . .” Cullen wasn't sure how much more he could take. “Forgive me, but not today my lady. Perhaps tomorrow? You should rest. Three smites is a lot for a mage. And I—I have my duties.” And a headache building to a crescendo, and a body screaming for lyrium after performing three smites. That might be the answer, he thought. Maybe he hadn't really wanted to kiss her at all. Maybe he'd just wanted the lyrium lingering on her lips. The thought filled him with self-loathing. Was he really so weak?

She nodded, “of course.” She scrambled to her feet and offered him a hand up, which he took, unsure if his smite-taxed body could rise on it's own. He rose slowly, leaning on her arm more than he intended. She eyed him thoughtfully at this, “are you sure you are quite alright, Commander?”

“What? Yes. Fine. It's been a long morning.” He said, his voice sounding irritable, and impatient.

“Very well,” she eyed him speculatively, but said nothing more on the matter. “I—Thank you for helping me. Really. It can't have been easy to teach a mage how to fight a templar.” She smiled.

Cullen felt his lips curve into a smile as well, and his heart lift to hear the sincerity and gratitude in her voice. “It was easier than I would have anticipated, my lady. And it was my pleasure.” He said, with genuine warmth.

Her cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink. “Well. . . uh. . . until tomorrow.” He wondered if he'd embarrassed her. Or if it was just a flush from the exertion of training.

“Until tomorrow,” Cullen replied.

*

It was only later that afternoon that Cullen put the pieces together. She had practiced the technique against the smite to deal with rogue templars, but never used it. Yet she claimed to have fought templars, and felt the effects of a smite, before.

So, whoever had smited her before, had not been a rogue templar. And whatever limited experience she had fighting templars was also, it seemed, not fighting rogue templars.

A cold fist of unease settled in his belly as he wondered, not for the first time, about the Lady Trevelyan's past.


	4. First Death

“Hear you got all 'chosen' again, squirt!” Maxwell laughed softly, tracing the anchor on Rosalind's hand. He was 16. She was 12. That was the last time she'd seen him before he'd joined the Chantry. It was the last time he'd seen her before she'd discovered she was a mage.

It wasn't real. It was the Fade. Maxwell, like everyone else who'd attended the conclave, was dead now. It wasn't real.

But it was wonderful to see him all the same. And it hurt. A deep, cutting ache. Like a wound she kept tearing open, and wouldn't let heal. Like the anchor on her hand.

“Don't call me squirt!” she said, as she had a thousand times before, pulling a face.

He laughed again, rumpled her hair like he always had when he was alive. Even once she was a grown woman. Even when her hair had been long and elaborately coiffed, he'd rumpled it. “I like the new cut,” he said.

“Long hair isn't really practical for a mage on the run,” she replied, with a shrug.

“It suits you, squirt. You weren't ever really cut out for high society. Probably why the Maker chose you to be a mage. He knew you didn't belong married off to some noble pig.” He tickled her in the ribs, grinning.

“Max, don't,” she laughed, “I've had about all I can take of talk of being chosen. And of the Maker. And Andraste. Really.”

He looked sober at that, “Yes, I imagine.” He sighed, pulling her into a hug. “But it isn't over yet, squirt. The Maker has plans for you. And for me too. I'm sorry, squirt, but it's time for me to go.”

She was crying now. 12 and crying, clinging to him. “Don't leave, Max. Please.” Crying in pure terror. “I don't want to be chosen. I don't care about the Maker's plans. For either of us. Just don't leave.” In the dream, she was in terror, and everything was mixed up. She had the mark on her hand, and it hurt. Like the knowledge of Maxwell's death hurt. Everything hurt. And she was 12, and afraid.

She remembered crying so hard when he left, her favourite brother. He'd smiled sadly, ruffled her hair, and told her the Maker had plans for him. Had plans for them all. His eyes had held a fanatical gaze, like they did now. Heated, as though his faith was a furnace inside him. She'd never understood that conviction. Couldn't understand it now.

He was gone. But, if he left, who would help her? Who could she tell about the whispers of demons in the night? Who would understand the way in which electricity blossomed inside her like a raging inferno, seeking release? Who could tell her she wasn't a monster? That she was exactly as the Maker had intended her to be? Who would stand beside her without fear?

Who could teach her not to fear herself?

Even asleep, she knew this was wrong. Before Max left, no one knew she was a mage. Not even herself. All that had happened after. The electricity storms that swept up out of nowhere centered on the manor house, in which she would wake up screaming in fear. The fall she had taken while chasing a barn cat up to the high turret roof on the Trevelyan manor house that she had walked away from without even a scratch. The many subtle signals over three years that she and the rest of her family had willfully ignored. That had come later.

When she was 16 and Maxwel was 20.

And Maxwell, now 20, holding her icy hands in the Chantry, beneath the statue of Andraste, coaxing her to calm down, and smoothing her hair from her tearstained face. Not rumpling it, but gently pushing it back. Soothing her and pleading with her to gain control, to end the ice storm that held the city of Ostwick in a frozen grip, killing livestock and destroying crops in the middle of July.

Killing the elderly, and small infants in their cradles.

Her other brother, Martin, the templar, knew what she was. He was coming for her.

Except he couldn't. No one could go anywhere. The city was paralyzed by a storm the likes of which no one had ever seen before. The templars and mages were trapped in the Circle. Everyone trapped in their homes. Rosalind, trapped in the Chantry where she had fled.

Fled to the one person she hoped might understand what was happening. The one person who might not turn away from her in horror and disgust.

Not Andraste.

Maxwell.

“Don't go, Max, please,” she whispered, now 16. “I can't do it on my own. Please, Max. I didn't mean to. It wasn't me. Please.”

He pressed her hands together between his own. “Squirt, it's okay. You're afraid, but you don't need to be. It's okay. But I need you to try to stop the storm, okay?”

Was it a snow storm he referred to? Or a giant green tear in the sky? In her dream, it was both.

“I can't,” she wailed. “I'm not a mage. It wasn't me. I—I'm not a mage. I'm not a m—monster.” I'm not, I'm not.

“You're not a monster, Squirt. You're just as the Maker made you.”

Her hands were shaking in his grasp, and the air around them was growing cold. Her breath puffed out in visible clouds between them, and icicles formed on Maxwell's eyelashes. You're going to freeze him. Freeze him solid. He'll die because of you! He's dead because of you! He's dead. Everyone's dead. She thought, this past memory blurring with her present knowledge of what had happened at the conclave.

Maxwell was dead.

Had been at the conclave, and was dead.

Was freezing to death before her and was dead.

And she was a monster. An abomination. A danger to everyone she loved.

But he didn't flinch, and didn't pull away, even as his own hands grew frosty against hers, and he started to shiver.

“If the Maker made me like this I hate Him. Why would He do this?” she was screaming. “I don't want this, Max. I don't.”

“Squirt, Rosalind, it isn't about what you want. It's about what the world needs. He has chosen you, because He knows you are strong enough for this. You can do this. You aren't a monster. All you have to do is stop the storm. Close the breach.”

“I can't,” she was wailing, tears freezing on her cheeks. Max shaking uncontrollably in the cold, his teeth chattering.

“Y—you can. People are d—d—dying, squirt. S—save them. Y—you aren't a monster. You are my c—courageous, s—s—strong, and amazing sister. And you've been chosen by Him. He knows you can do this. P—p—please, Rosalind.”

She had. Clutching his fingers in a death grip, she reached within herself, past the fear, and the demons, and the chaos, to find something calm, and still. The Fade. Pouring sweet energy like liquid gold through her veins. She let it fill her. Surrendered to it. Let go of her resistance, denial and fear. Believing and trusting not in the Maker, but in Max. His hands would be her anchor. His faith would be her compass. If he believed she was not a monster, she would believe it too.

And the storm had quieted. His fingers grew warm. And he'd wrapped her in a solid hug, laughing against her hair. “I knew you could do it, Squirt,” he'd whispered, kissing the top of her head. The he drew back, holding her firmly by the shoulder and giving her the most serious look she'd ever seen on his face. “I need you to make me a promise, Rosalind.”

She nodded, still crying and gasping for breath, as the thrum of the Fade slowly subsided.

“Promise me, Rosalind. Promise me. Whatever the Maker has planned for you, you'll remember who you are. My amazing sister. You were chosen by Him. You were chosen to serve mankind. And you are strong enough. Promise.”

She had.

And then he turned from her. Walking away. Leaving her alone in the Chantry, under the stern gaze of Andraste.

That wasn't right. That wasn't how it had happened, she thought wildly. He'd stayed. He has to stay.

“I can't do it without you,” she whispered, reaching for his fingers, for her compass. “Come back, Max. Please.”

The Chantry doors burst open to admit the templars, Martin at the front. His face was white with fury, just as it had been in truth, when he'd found her and Max, all those years ago. Martin had faced an inquiry, to prove he hadn't been harboring his sister as an apostate mage. He'd been demoted, and moved out of the Ostwick circle. It had cost him his career. He was never able to rise high in the ranks, with Rosalind as a black mark on his record.

Though, it had probably saved his life. He wasn't important enough to be at the Conclave.

“My own sister,” he'd hissed. Then, in a voice like Cassandra's, “Tell me why I shouldn't just kill you right now?”

Before she could answer, he'd hit her with a smite. Thrown off her feet, she'd cracked her head on the polished Chantry floor.

He advanced on her again, his sword raised. He brought it down in a vicious arch, his face contorted in fury. Rosalind shut her eyes, tears leaking out of the corners, bracing for the killing blow her brother had never delivered in life.

In life, Maxwell had been there to stand between them. To make peace.

He wasn't there any more. Would never be there again. He was gone.

She felt the blow land.

Her whole body jerked in pain. The action seemed to fling her brutally out of the Fade, out of her dream, to land on the hard, frozen ground, where she lay rolled in blankets.

Rosalind sat up to find herself in a canvas tent somewhere in the Hinterlands. A dream. Another dream about her missing brother. Her cheeks were damp, and her throat felt too tight. She closed her eyes, scrubbed her face, and scrambled out of her tent into the pre-dawn light.

Tears still leaked from the corners of her eyes, but she pushed thoughts of Maxwell to the back of her mind again. No time. There was no time to mourn him yet. But that was okay. He'd understand. He had always believed her to be chosen, that her magic was a gift. He would want her to help deal with this situation in any way she could.

No, Maxwell wouldn't be upset that she had not mourned him yet. But she wasn't sure how long she could keep forcing his memory, and her own pain, into the background and stay sane.

She stood quietly at the edge of the camp, trying to calm her nerves. “It isn't over yet, squirt. The Maker has plans for you.” She knew that, of course. It wasn't over yet. While she doubted that there was a divine hand in this at all, she knew it was a long way from over. She studied her hand, the mark, as she slowly gained control of her emotions. After a moment, she felt composed enough to return to camp, and was just running her hands through her hair to smooth it down when she heard a rustling in the woods.

“You okay, frostbite?” a voice drawled from a few feet behind her. Rosalind whirled around to face Varric, moseying back to camp with a couple of birds he had clearly just shot.

“As okay as I can expect to be, given the situation,” she said, pleased with how steady her own voice sounded. She couldn't tell anyone about her dream. About Max. If she did, it would open a floodgate of emotion, and she wasn't sure she'd ever get it closed again.

“Yeah, I was wondering how you were holding up. Not many people can go from prisoner to savior in twenty-four hours. Most people spread that out over a week or so.”

Rosalind smiled weakly, flexing her fingers around the mark on her hand.

Varric eyed it speculatively, but didn't comment on it. “You know how to pluck a goose, frostbite, or was that too unladylike for nobility?”

“The circles fell three years ago, Varric. I learned how to pluck a goose.” Rosalind laughed, in spite of herself. She'd learned many things since the circles had fallen, most centered around the monumental tasks of obtaining and preparing food. Something she'd never thought twice about before the circles fell.

“Excellent, then you can give me a hand,” Varric said with a smile. He headed over to the banked fire and had it roaring in a moment. Rosalind seated herself beside him on the semi-frozen ground, and set herself to the unpleasant but at least distracting task of plucking a goose.

“So,” Varric began after a few moments of silence, “I heard that you weren't surrendered to the circle until you were sixteen.”

Rosalind's fingers stilled on her goose, remembering the dream from moments before. 'Surrendered to the circle' sounded about right, really. She'd fought it every step of the way, hadn't she? Fought herself when the magic first manifested. Fought and denied and hidden it as best she could. For years. Fought Maxwell when he found out, begging and pleading and making him promise not to tell anyone. Fought her own brother Martin when her mother suspected enough to send for him to test and examine her. Fought a whole army of templars to a standstill in a crippling snow storm that brought the city of Ostwick to it's knees. Fought. . . and ultimately surrendered.

“Yes, that's right,” was all she said.

“That's a bit old, right?” Varric asked, his voice still warm, earthy and soothing. No accusation. He didn't even look up from his goose.

“Yes, it was. My magic manifested late,” Rosalind said, the lie slipping out easily after all these years.

“Huh,” Varric still didn't look up. “Can I ask what was going to happen before your magic turned up on the scene? Or is that something taboo? I don't really know much about all this magic shit.”

Rosalind smiled in spite of herself. She was reasonably sure that Varric was doing this on purpose to put her at ease in order to learn more about her. But, even knowing this, she still found herself relaxing and opening up to him. “I don't think it's a forbidden question,” she laughed lightly. “I was actually engaged to be married.”

“Really. Well. . . shit. I could write one helluvu love story there, huh. Forbidden lovers. Young love's hopes dashed all too soon. Did he sneak into the circle to see you? Any illicit affair?” He leered.

At that, Rosalind burst out laughing. “Hardly. I didn't even know him.”

“What?”

“I've never actually met him. I was betrothed to him when I was 6. We were supposed to marry when I was 17. He was from a wealthy merchant family. They wanted our noble rank, and we desperately needed their wealth. It was a marriage meant to save my family's estate. To tell you the truth, I was never very wild about it. If I'd had my way, I would have become an Orlesian bard.”

“You don't say. Like our deadly spymaster, then?”

“I suppose. I didn't think about it too deeply. About the assassination angle, anyway. I just wanted the glamorous lifestyle. Fantasies of being a beguiling spy, I guess,” she shook her head, grinning. “Silly, really.”

“Can you sing? Play? Dance?”

“Yes, I can dance. I play the harp decently. I think they would have revoked my noble title if I couldn't. It's basically a requirement for a lady. And my voice is fair, if nothing special. But, it's probably for the best that I became neither a wife nor an Orlesian spy.”

“Right. Religious icon is more your role, huh?” Varric asked, arching an eyebrow.

Rosalind's gaze drifted back to her hand again, and silence fell between them. “Varric. . .” she said after a moment, “are you an Andrastean?”

“Shit, frostbite. You don't want to talk theology with me do you? I'm no scholar.”

“No. . . I. . . just. . . are you?” She didn't really know why she was asking, but Varric was the only person so far who had treated her like a person. Like a potential friend. Instead of like a weapon, or an Andrastian miracle.

Varric took a deep breath, staring hard at his plucked goose. “Andraste's ass,” he whispered. “Yeah, frostbite. I guess I am. Aren't you?” He raised his eyes, meeting her gaze with a quizzical look.

Rosalind bit her lip, glancing at the angry green mark on her hand. “I—I don't know. I never have been before.” She shrugged.

“You don't even believe in Andraste?” a Navarren-accented voice asked behind her. Rosalind's head shot up, as did Varric's.

“Cassandra,” she said stupidly, handing her semi-plucked goose to Varric and rising. “I—I. . .”

Cassandra was glowering at her like a thunder cloud again. “I did wonder,” she said softly, her eyes sliding away from Rosalind's face, and gazing off into the distance. “But I don't suppose it matters. I need to believe that you were chosen, even if you do not.”

She turned, and walked away, dismissing Rosalind and Varric without a backward glance.

“Shit,” Rosalind said softly, sinking back down beside Varric. “She is never going to like me, is she?”

“Well, at least she's not trying to kill you, frostbite,” Varric chuckled. “From one former prisoner to another, I can tell you that's progress.” He finished plucking Rosalind's goose, and rose to his feet. “Come on, let's get these cooking. A full stomach might improve Cassandra's mood.”

*

They arrived at the Crossroads in the early morning, to find the small village in the grips of a mage/templar civil war. Rosalind's stomach clenched as she gripped her battered staff in fingers slick with nervous sweat. Battling demons was one thing. She'd done that before. But this, this was something else entirely.

These were people.

She might even know some of them. Her brother, Martin, might be among them.

But they were attacking everyone, including defenseless refugees. Solas and Cassandra both called out to the mages and templars respectively. Neither group would pause to listen. In fact, calling out to them only served to alert them to their small party's presence. And before she even had time to brace herself, they were engaged in battle.

The plan had been for Rosalind to hang back, providing defensive protection, and not engaging in actual combat, if they were faced with any skirmish while in the Hinterlands.

Plans change.

Rosalind tossed a barrier over her party a heartbeat before the mages cast on them. Templars were running in from the other side. Within moments, everything was chaos. Bloody, burning, screaming, sweaty chaos. She tried to hang back, but there didn't seem to be any back to hang in.

She threw a bolt of ice at a templar bearing down on Varric, only to hear Solas call out a sharp warning with barely enough time to fling herself out of the way of a vicious fireball cast by a mage.

The mage bore down on her, raining fire, and melting through her ice armor as fast as she could cast it. Rosalind backed up as quickly as she could, casting a wall of ice between herself and the other mage. She felt a moment of relief as that seemed to stall the other mage for a moment, as he attempted to melt the wall of ice between them with fire.

But her relief was short lived. No sooner had she taken a breath than she felt a hard blow to the back of her skull. She fell forward, stars bursting before her eyes. Someone, maybe Varric, called her name, but no one was close enough to help her. Catching herself on her hands, Rosalind looked over her shoulder, to behold a templar baring down on her. He seemed to have lost his sword in the skirmish, but he was lifting his shield to strike, and pulling a dagger from his belt. She imagined it was the shield he had used to strike her on the back of the head once already. Her helmet seemed to have protected her from the worst of it, but her vision was still blurry.

She rolled as quickly as she could, accidentally leaving her staff behind as he brought his shield down in a vicious arch, connecting with the ground where she had just been.

He swung out with his foot, striking her in the gut. The pain was unbelievable, as all the air was forced out of her lungs.

He bent over her now, shield abandoned, and dagger in hand. He yanked her protective helmet off and brought the dagger down, as though to slit her throat.

She seized the dagger in both her hands, and it bit angrily through her leather gloves and into her flesh. She wondered, briefly, if it might simply cut the mark right out of her left hand, and what would happen then. Part of her hoped it would.

Her blood coated the blade, making the dagger slip against her fingers as the two of them wrestled in a silent battle.

She was losing.

He was stronger, and his grip was on the handle, not a blade coated in lubricating blood.

No she thought in a blinding rage, all the fear burning away. I am not going to die in the dirt because of some bloody rogue templar. I am a Trevelyan. I am the mage that brought Ostwick to a standstill! I froze a whole city. It took an entire templar squadron to bring me in. This is NOT how it ends!

And she yanked at the Fade, sending white hot electricity through the blade of the dagger.

The templar recoiled, flying backwards several feet, as the armor he wore perfectly conducted her burst of lighting through his body.

“Bitch,” he hissed as they both struggled to their feet. “Bloody mage bitch.”

And he called down a smite.

It hit Rosalind with the force of a raging river and, for a moment, she fought against it. Fought blindly to maintain her connection to the Fade.

No, she shouted at her own instincts, let go!

With an effort, she did. Relinquishing control and allowing the smite to carry her mana away. Downstream. Out of her body. Allowing the smite to bring her to her hands and knees. Allowing it to bow her head, her gaze falling to her left hand, still clutching the blade of his dagger between bloody fingers.

It felt like an eternity. But was over in less time than it takes to blink.

She rose, and felt her mana rushing back into the void created by the smite.

Rose, and transferred the dagger to her right hand, gripping it by the hilt.

“What the hell?” the templar whispered, his eyes growing wide with fear.

That was the last thing he ever said.

Casting fade step, she closed the distance between them with practiced fluidity. She took the half-step behind him, hooking her foot around his, but had no staff to help her with the leverage needed to trip him.

Instead she rammed the dagger home in the arm-pit gap in his armor Rammed it home viciously with her right hand, while pushing with all her might with her left against his breastplate. He cried out in surprise and pain, and neatly fell over her leg.

He twitched, convulsed. His hand grasped uselessly at the dagger-hilt, still imbedded up under his left arm-pit.

He died.

She knew he was dead. Could see it.

She stood back, breathing hard, blood dripping from her fingers, to find that the rest of the battle had fallen silent around her. The Inquisition had, apparently, won.

Several more disturbingly still bodies littered the ground, and blood cris-crossed it like little creeks.

Everything felt numb, and there was a roaring in her ears that might have been her own heart racing.

Cassandra rushed towards her, having just dispatched the last of the templars herself. She took in the scene, her gaze flitting between Rosalind and the templar at her feet. “Herald, are you hurt?”

Rosalind opened her mouth to ask for a healing potion, or assure them that she was not fatally wounded, or any number of other useful things she might have said. “He's dead,” was what she ended up saying.

And then she turned and vomited.

*

The rest of the trip to the Crossroads was, admittedly, a bit of a blur. She was handed a healing potion, cleaned up and presented to Mother Giselle. But Rosalind honestly could not remember what she'd said to her. In any case, the woman seemed to have accepted her as she was, and agreed to help.

All Rosalind really remembered was Mother Giselle's eyes. They were lit, from the inside, with the same intense fire of faith that had lit Maxwell's. Unshakable, calm, and certain. And comforting. As though just standing near that kind of faith would cause some conviction to rub off on her. It didn't. But it felt like that.

After that, there were a multitude of things to do. Feeding the refugees by killing rams. Closing rifts. Dealing with a pack of disturbingly wild wolves. Rosalind went through all the motions like a complex machine. As though she were a Golem or something.

But she was grateful. These things were easy. She'd been killing demons since she was 13 years old, and wild animals had been her main source of food since the circle fell. That was fine. Normal.

The rogue templars and rebel mages. . . they were not easy. She got better at it, but they were not easy. Her party adapted to working together, learning each others strengths and weaknesses. It made it more feasible for her to hang back, to avoid dealing the killing blow. But she still saw them die. And she was still a part of it.

No, it was not easy to bear.

And the most awful thing about it was that it was getting easier. Easier to watch them die. Easier to strike against fellow human beings. Easier to hate them.

And that was also not easy to bear.

She wandered away from the fire on their fourth night in the Hinterlands. Not far—there were frightfully powerful and deranged bears all over the place—but far enough to be outside the companionable circle of light. She sagged against a tree, and closed her eyes.

When she did that, it was as though she could see them all. She tried to force her thoughts away from them, the men and women she'd help kill, and instead thought about what she knew of her situation.

When she thought about it, it was passing strange that she should be a part of this new inquisition at all. But she was, though her role in it was entirely unclear. Still, whenever thought of escape crossed her mind, Rosalind had only to look at her hand, and remember the astonishing, excruciating pain she'd felt upon waking in the prison cell on her first day in Haven to resolve herself to stay. If she didn't stay, she would mostly likely die, consumed inch by inch by a growing green scar that currently sat in angry silence across her palm. Solas had said the breach was only temporarily closed. When it opened again, she would need help to close it, or she would die. And if she died, there didn't seem to be any other way of closing the breach. If she died, it seemed quite likely that many other people would die before anyone found a way to close the breach.

Maybe all of Thedas would perish.

And she couldn't run away knowing that. Knowing that, by running, she might well be condemning everyone to death. And she couldn't do that. Promise me, Maxwell had said. And she'd promised. She'd promised to serve mankind. And she meant to keep that promise.

The simple fact was that the Inquisition was the only organization trying to do anything about the glaring green hole in the sky and that meant, whether she liked it or not, Rosalind was going to have to work with them.

Whether she liked it or not, she had become part of a far fetched and possibly ill advised attempt to save the world. It was enough to drive a girl to tears. But Rosalind didn't cry. Wouldn't allow herself to cry. She feared that if she started feeling sorry for herself now, she was never going to be able to stop. Instead she closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. She opened them and found Varric standing before her, giving her a sympathetic and questioning look. She smiled and shook her head. He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, offering her a mug of tea

She took another deep breath. She couldn't handle sympathy. Not now. She didn't trust it. If someone showed her sympathy, commented on how terrible this all must be for her, she was fairly sure she'd give in a wail, or faint, or any number of the common, silly, reactions among the noble women she'd lived with as a child. Or, more likely, she would probably unburden herself on them in a sea of salty tears and unlady-like snot. If someone tried to sympathize with her, she wouldn't be able to be strong anymore. She'd be weak. Vulnerable. And she couldn't afford to be weak. She knew the rules of this game now. Knew the players. Knew their strengths and weaknesses. And she knew she could win. She would win. And she would live.

So she didn't answer Varric's questioning gaze. She simply reached out, and accepted the tea from him. “Thanks,” was all she said.

Varric accepted this for the dismissal it was. “Any time,” he replied softly, turning and heading back to the cozy circle of the fire.

She took her first sip of tea, inwardly wincing at how horrible the stuff was. What she wouldn’t give for a decent cup of tea.

You will live, she repeated fiercely to herself. You will recruit these stuffy templars, or the reckless mages, or whoever, close the Maker-be-damned breach, live, and leave the Inquisition. Then you can find some nice library somewhere where they can make a decent cup of tea, and spend the rest of your days quietly, happily, reading. She repeated this to herself so often lately that she almost believed it.

While her role in the inquisition was not entirely clear, it seemed to mainly boil down to “stay alive, try to recruit as much help as possible, and close rifts.” And that she could do pretty well. She could do it. She would. She had to. And that was all there was to it.

And she would kill people along the way.

A lot of people.

People with loved ones, families, and friends.

She closed her eyes again, gulping her tea and wishing it was something stronger. Logically she knew that the cost of the lives of a few rogue templars and mages was worth it, if it would save the whole bloody world. It was one thing to know it.

And another thing entirely to witness the payment of that cost.

At least they were going back to Haven tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would have a reprieve.

So thinking, she poured the rest of the damn awful tea on the ground, and silently climbed into her tent. Mercifully, neither Maxwell nor anyone else visited her dreams.

*

“Can I talk to you, Curly?” Varric called out, as Cullen headed to his tent in the pre-dawn light to prepare for the new day. He'd been up half the night again, plagued by nightmares and thoughts of lyrium, finally finding some measure of solace in prayer in the Chantry.

Cullen winced at the name, and ran a hand over his hair to make sure it was all in place before he could stop himself, causing Varric to grin broadly. “Yes, of course. Do you need something, Varric?”

“No, it's not me who needs something.” Varric motioned Cullen over to his own little encampment, where they could have some measure of privacy. “Have you talked to Frostbite since we got back from the Hinterlands?”

“Ah. . No? Wait, who is Frostbite?” Cullen ran through a mental tally of the occupants of camp, but he couldn't keep up with Varric's nicknames, nor who they referred to.

“The Herald,” Varric said impatiently. “Lady Trevelyan.”

“No, why? Has something happened?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Varric motioned Cullen to sit beside him by the fire. “You remember the first person you ever killed, Commander?”

Cullen's stomach rolled over as visions of Kinloch Hold flashed before his eyes.

Varric eyed him speculatively, and nodded. “Yeah, it's no picnic. As our lady has found out.”

“Ah,” Cullen breathed. “Is. . . is she alright?”

Varric shrugged. “With Frostbite, who knows. She just sort of freezes everyone out, right? Maybe she's fine. Maybe she really does have a block of ice for a heart. But you know what I think, Curly?”

Cullen raised his eyebrows.

“I think she's very alone, and very afraid. And I think you should talk to her.”

“Me?” Cullen sputtered.

“Yeah. Odd isn't it. I mean who in their right mind could resist this chest hair?” Varric gestured at himself. “But she had breakfast with you before we left, right? And you trained together, right? I saw the two of you together. Seemed like a pretty intense conversation.”

“Uh. . .” 'I think you are afraid of me, and I know that I'm afraid of you' “you could say that. I suppose.”

“So you know what I think, Curly?” Varric asked, but plunged on before waiting for an answer. “I think she's putting a brave face on all of this. But she needs a friend. And I think that friend should be you.”

“Me?” Cullen sputtered again.

“Sure. Who else? Cassandra? That woman is probably the only person here colder than Frostbite. I don't see the two of them becoming gal pals. Frankly, imprisonment and death threats aren't the greatest foundation for a lasting friendship. Trust me. Solas seems to prefer his friends as ethereal as possible. Leliana scares the shit out of everyone, and our lady Ambassador is lovely, but I don't think she's going to be a lot of help in dealing with the blood on Frostbite's hands. Now, Rosalind's talked to me some, but hell Curly, I can't do this all by myself!”

“But she's a mage. And I'm. . I was a templar,” Cullen blurted out.

“Yeah. . . 'was' being the operative word there, right?” Varric raised an eyebrow, giving Cullen a piercing gaze.

“I. . . ”

“You should talk to her, Curly. That's all I'm saying.”

Cullen nodded. Varric was right. He should talk to her. But he didn't. He told himself it was because he feared coming into contact with lyrium again. But that wasn't the whole truth. The whole truth, when he was brave enough to face it, was that he didn't know how to talk to her about death. About killing.

The words eluded him.

*

“Frankly, it is much worse that we had feared out there,” Cassandra said flatly, as she hacked viciously at the dummy before her. She took a breath, shaking our her arms and loosening her shoulders before swinging again, her form technically perfect, as always. “Demons pouring out of the sky. Skirmishes between mages and templars everywhere. And innocent people caught in the middle. They are starving and freezing to death out there. We did what we could. But. . . it is much worse that we feared. We need reinforcements. That's why the Herald has left. She requested I come back here right after that Grey Warden, Blackwall, joined us. I'd rather be there, guarding her, but she claims to need me to oversee our plans to Val Royeaux.” She swiped viciously at the dummy again, and Cullen wondered if Cassandra was imagining a white-haired mage with black black eyes in its place.

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. The party had been back in Haven for less than two days when Rosalind had taken off again, first to the Hinterlands on a request for Leliana to hunt down some Grey Warden. Cassandra had reappeared yesterday, but she had appeared alone. Rosalind had recruit Blackwall, the warden, and put him to work immediately. Now they were headed to the Storm Coast to recruit a band of mercenaries, evidently.

The pace at with Rosalind moved was unfathomable. She was like a bolt of lightening, aimed for the most expedient route to close the breach. Reports came in daily, requests for watch towers, announcements of new agents recruited into the inquisition, and a constant stream of warm pelts and animal carcasses to feed and clothe their ever expanding army. Most of these reports came directly from Rosalind herself. She was efficient, and determined.

But, for all her willingness to help, it didn't seem that Rosalind trusted her three advisers any more than she had when Cullen first saw her. Sending Cassandra home, and replacing her with a new recruit, was testament to that.

It made Cullen uneasy. He glanced at Leliana who stood nearby, watching his exchange with Cassandra with an impassive face. With one final swing of the sword, Cassandra decapitated the poor practice dummy, and seemed to decide her practice training was over for the moment. She turned to look at both Cullen and Leliana. “It's worse than we feared,” she said again, “But Lady Trevelyan is better than we could have hoped. She had made huge progress in recruitment, and in gaining influence for the Inquisition. However, she has requested that we set up a training regiment for her, and I agree. She is a good defender on the battle field, but is not well suited to offensive combat. And that will be needful.”

“Actually,” Cullen said awkwardly, “I did train with the Herald a while back. Hand-to-hand combat, and devising a way to deal with templar abilities.” While this training exercise hadn't exactly been a secret, he still hadn't told anyone yet. His fear of betraying Templar techniques still gnawed at the back of his mind.

“Oh,” Cassandra raised her brows, “Good. Very sensible, Commander. If you feel comfortable, you should meet with her again, on a regular basis.”

Cullen nodded his assent, though he felt far from comfortable at the suggestion. 

Cassandra's gaze flickered from him to the spymaster. “Leliana, I'd like you to work with her regarding battling rogues. Her reactions aren't bad. But we need them to be instinctual. She shies from the killing blow too often.”

“Understood,” Leliana nodded.

“So, shall we meet Josephine in the war room in an hour?” Cassandra said.

Both Cullen and Leliana nodded, and turned to leave. Cullen began to head back to his own duties, overseeing the training of some horrifically raw recruits, when Leliana placed a hand on his elbow “a word, Commander, if you have time.”

“Of course,” Cullen replied, following her to her tent.

“So, our herald sent Cassandra back,” Leliana began, “and is now off to recruit a mercenary company known as the 'Chargers'. They're lead by a Qunari spy. She has also gained the following of another group calling themselves the 'Blades of Hessarian'. They have sworn their oath of loyalty to her, Commander. Not the Inquisition, but Lady Trevelyan herself. What does that suggest to you?”

“I. . . I don't know. We asked her to recruit people, did we not?”

“We did. But she is not only recruiting, Cullen,” Leliana frowned, lost in thought. “She is gaining their trust. Surrounding herself with people who are not necessarily loyal to the Inquisition, but loyal to her.”

“Are you sure?” Cullen asked, taken aback.

“No, not sure. But, as we both know, Rosalind Trevelyan awoke to death threats in this very village, uttered by the very woman who looks to be about to decapitate her second dummy in as many hours,” she glanced back at Cassandra, who was, indeed, attacking another dummy. “It is not unreasonable for the lady to try to surround herself with people who owe loyalty to her, and not to us. People she feels she can trust.”

“I see.” He did. It made an awful, painful sense.

“It is a reasonable move,” Leliana continued. “But we should be cautious. I do no think she will shut us out entirely, Commander. She will know that she has need of us. But we should ensure that we are kept well abreast of everything she does.”

Cullen nodded, with a sinking feeling in his heart. He had thought, after their training sessions, that Rosalind might come to trust him. Perhaps it was too much to hope for, that a mage and templar—former templar—could work together in peace.

Again, he realized that Varric was right. He needed to speak to her. Soon.

*


	5. Redcliffe

“Your kind killed the Most Holy,” someone shouted, and Cullen was running towards that voice before he'd even registered exactly what had been said. The tone meant trouble, of that he was sure.

“Lies,” another voice replied, “your kind let her die.”

He saw them both squaring off in front of the Chantry, a group of templars and a group of mages, leering at each other. This exchange would come to a head in moments.

Heedless of his own safety, Cullen flung himself between the two speakers. He felt a barrier settle over him, but had no time to wonder where it came from. “Enough,” he said.

The templar bowed immediately, “Knight-Commander,” he said reverently.

“That is not my title any more. We are not templars anymore. We are, all of us, part of the Inquisition.” He pushed the former templar and mage apart, dimly aware of the chill on his arm as he did so. The barrier protected him from the worst of it. A frost mage, then. He didn't allow himself to feel it, to think on it. He needed to establish order. Both the mage and templar who had spoken tensed at his presence, and the group behind both held their breath.

It seemed everyone held their breath for a moment. Cullen stood his ground, thankful for the presence of the barrier, and prayed he was not about to witness a blood bath.

Mercifully, they fell back. “Return to your duties, at once,” he commanded, his voice shaking slightly and just shy of shouting.

The crowd dispersed, slowly. And for the first time in several moments, Cullen felt able to breathe. He scanned the area, making sure there were no other quarrels about to come to a head. It was then that he saw Rosalind Trevelyan. Her brow was furrowed, and she was watching him intently, motionless, standing in a shadow beside the chantry doors, her staff held firmly in one hand. She made a gesture with the other, and the barrier around him dropped.

She had cast the barrier around him? He nodded his thanks and she smiled, coming towards him, and strapping her staff to her back.

“My lady?” he asked, “do you need something?”

She paused. Opened her mouth and then seemed to think better of what she was about to say. Paused again, her gaze flickering to the former-templar's retreating forms. “Do you think it that simple?” She asked, slowly.

“What?” Cullen followed her gaze.

“Do you think you can just say it, and make it so? Tell them they are all part of the Inquisition and have them believe it?”

“Ah, no. Probably not. But if I remind them enough times, perhaps it will become so.”

“Remind them? Or yourself?” She continued to gaze past him, as though lost in thought, but her words were like a punch to the gut. Did she know of his struggles?

“Both, my lady,” he replied, hoarsely.

Her dark eyes returned to his face, eyebrows lifted a fraction as though in surprise as his candid honesty. “Well,” she said after a pause, “remind me too, will you?” she smiled at that, softening the blow of her words.

“I will try, Herald” he said, and he meant it.

“Herald of Andraste, is it? And what does that mean, exactly?” Chancellor Roderick sauntered up. From where, Cullen couldn't imagine, but the man had been skulking around the edges of their encampment for weeks now, calling their whole operation blasphemous whenever he could.

Rosalind tensed at his presence, her hand moving towards her staff and Cullen remembered how fond Roderick was of calling her a murderer. But she checked herself, and did not draw her weapon, a fact Cullen was grateful for. The whole courtyard felt like a powder-keg, needing only the slightest provocation to explode. Still, he felt the barrier settle over him again, and knew that Rosalind was preparing for the worst.

“I'm curious,” Roderick continued, elevating his voice in an attempt to draw the dispersing crowed back, and succeeding in capturing the attention of several mages and templars, curious at this new development, “how your inquisition and its 'herald' plan to restore order.”

“Of course you are,” Cullen replied drily.

“You are a blasphemer. Calling yourself the Herald of Andraste. We need a proper authority to guide mages and templars back to order.”

“Who,” Cullen broke in, “you? Random clerics who weren't important enough to be at the Chantry?” He heard Rosalind snot in repressed laughter beside him.

Roderick glowered. “Better than the alternative, the blasphemous Inquisition and it's so called Herald of Andraste.”

“Now I'm curious,” Rosalind said, her own voice raising, “what you would do to restore order. Honestly, if you'd like to go out and close rifts, feed hungry refugees, and fight demons and rabid wolves, you can take my place. I'd rather have a bath and a warm cup of tea. What do you say?” She smiled. “There's a new rift just outside of Haven, actually. I was about to go deal with it. Come with me, and I'll show you the ropes?”

Roderick blanched, “I. . .”

“Seriously. Let's go now. You can practice on this one, and then take over for the next? And I can go back to rotting in some dungeon somewhere for a murder I didn't commit. At least then my life wouldn't be at risk from demons, wolves, templars and mages every bloody second of every bloody day.” She turned and began striding out of town. Roderick stood rooted to the spot.

Cullen couldn't help the grin that split his face as he watched this. She was good. Magnificant, really. And Roderick was increasingly looking like a fool.

Rosalind turned back to him, “it's this way, Chancellor,” she called out cheerfully waving ahead of her. There were small titters of laughter from the crowd milling around them now, Cullen's own rusty laugh among them.

Roderick gave her a hard look. “You are still a blasphemer, and the Maker is not amused.” He turned and stalked off.

“When you speak to Him, you can tell Him I'm not amused either,” Rosalind muttered back, anger flashing in the depths of her eyes. Too quiet for Roderick to here, but Cullen did. He wondered, for the first time, how she was holding up under the strain of being everyone's last hope for salvation. He eyed her carefully. She looked thinner, he thought, and there were dark circles under her eyes. But the anger was gone in a moment, replaced with a cheerful wave “okay then, I'll just handle this rift alone, shall I? Maybe you can help me next time.”

The crowd dispersed again with a few chuckles. As the last of the crowd wandered off, Rosalind's gaze flickered to Cullen. “Good luck keeping order around here,” she said with a weariness in her voice that had not been there before. “I'll try to bring good news from Val Royeaux. I'm afraid I can't promise anything, though, especially if they're all like Roderick.”

“Maker forbid,” Cullen replied, with genuine feeling.

The corner of Rosalind's mouth quirked up into a smile, though her eyes still seemed shadowed, haunted. “Yes. . . well,” she shook her head, “a Chantry Brother shouldn't be such a fool. He should be. . .” she trailed off, frowning. “Well. . . as you say, all the important Chantry Brothers are dead.” There was a small catch in her voice, and Cullen found himself staring at her intently. Some powerful emotion fluttered across her face, gone in an instant and replaced with an unreadable expression.

“And all we are left with are men and women who seem to have forgotten that their vows mean something,” Cullen replied, allowing some of his fear and anger leak out with the words.

“You aren't just speaking of Roderick?”

“No, my lady. Templars are meant to serve and protect. But the ones we have here. . .” he sighed. “Once, I thought there was no more noble a calling than to take my vows as a templar.”

Rosalind shrugged. “The mages provoke them. It's always the way. Everyone is just frustrated.” She shrugged. “Maybe they need to get laid. That's Varric's theory, anyway.”

Despite himself, Cullen chuckled at that. And his laughter provoked her own. “What can I say,” she grinned, “Varric certainly knows how to cut to the heart of the matter. Though I suppose Roderick's vows would preclude that,” Rosalind frowned. “I don't know about the templars. . .”

“Chastity is not a requirement, no. Some templars choose to make those vows, but it isn't required,” Cullen supplied.

“Ah, good. Then Varric's latest story is factually accurate in at least one area. Did you know that his leading man bears a striking resemblance to you?”

At that, Cullen groaned, remembering all to well what Varric's stories were like from Kirkwall. This only made Rosalind laugh harder. Maybe Varric was right, Cullen thought, maybe they could be friends.

He cast around for a way to keep this light informal conversation going, when Rosalind arched an eyebrow and asked in a deadly serious voice, “So, all Varric's fans want to know, have you taken vows of Chastity, ser?”

There was a wicked sparkle in her eyes, and Cullen felt his cheeks growing hot. “Me? Uh. . . no. I've taken no such vows.” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Maker's breath, can we speak of something else?”

“Of course,” she replied with mirth. Cullen suspected she'd done that on purpose to see him sweat, and was surprised to find he didn't mind, his own mouth twitching at the corners in answer. “Do you think Chancellor Roderick will be a problem? With regards to the delegation to Orlais, I mean?”

“No, my lady. He's a harmless minor cleric. His opinions won't be taken seriously in Val royeaux.”

“Well, that's a relief. I am getting a bit tired of being called a murderer all the time,” Rosalind quipped, but there was a hurt lurking in her face.

“I—uh—I imagine that must be difficult. You know that none of us think you responsible for the breach, don't you my Lady?”

She smiled wearily. “Beyond the walls of Haven, there's no end to the people calling for my blood. And I would be naive indeed to think everyone within these walls thinks me innocent.”

“My lady,” Cullen reached out to her, remembering what Varric had said, “if you need anything. . .”

She shook her head, discreetly shying away from his touch. “What I need, is to become a better fighter, quickly. Would. . . would you do me the kindness of training me again when I return Commander?”

“Of course, my Lady. It would be my pleasure.”

She studied him again for a long moment, chewing on her lip, before shrugging. “Until I return,” she said. And then she was gone.

But he pledged to himself that he would use this training session as an excuse to speak to her. Make sure she was okay. Get her to eat something. Find the words to talk about death. And killing.

But the next time he saw her, everything changed.

She didn't return from Val Royeaux. Instead, she met Grand Enchanter Fiona. And she made a detour to Redcliffe.

When she returned, she returned with horrific news.

*

Rosalind chose the mages. The mages. Of course she did, Cullen thought bitterly, her words from a few weeks ago echoing back to him. 'I know I am afraid of you'. Of course she'd chosen the mages. But it hurt, all the same. And it terrified him.

Still, she held her ground, after making her wishes known, and met his gaze squarely, even if her face was, once again, carefully blank.

Rosalind chose the mages.

And Cassandra and Leliana supported this decision. He was being out-voted, and they were all about to be overrun by apostates!

“This is madness,” Cullen said in disbelief. “Redcliffe castle is impenetrable, and we cannot guarantee that the Herald will be protected if we send her there.”

“I agree,” said Josephine, for which Cullen was more grateful than he could express. At least not all of them had lost their sanity. “The Magister asked for Lady Trevelyan by name. It is obviously a trap.”

“So we have heard from Alexius. How kind of him to invite me,” Rosalind smiled, “and I fear I have nothing to wear.” Her voice was mild, her face still blank apart from the polite smile, but Cullen felt something dangerous about her. Carefully coiled power, held ruthlessly in check. Like walking on ice over a raging river.

“We have a hostile force on our border,” Cassandra exclaimed.

“And yet some of us would rather do nothing about this,” Leliana interjected pointedly.

“I will not have this debate again,” Josephine sputtered. “It is not a question of doing nothing. It is a question of safety.”

With an effort, Cullen leashed his temper and attempted, again, to explain. “Redcliffe castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden. It has repelled thousands of assaults.” He turned to catch Rosalind's eye, willing her to listen, to react. Willing his words to penetrate the blank facade she presented him with. “If you go in there, you'll die. And we'll lose the only means we have of closing the rifts. I won't allow it.” I can't allow it.

If anything, this only made Rosalind's face grow harder, a spark of angry defiance glinting in her eyes. It frightened him more. He wondered if he was the only one who could feel frigid power coiling around him in this suddenly too-small room. She had never seemed so dangerous before. But she had also never made a decision before. This was the first time she'd initiated a plan in the war room, and she seemed determined to see it through.

“If we don't even try,” Leliana said, “we will lose the mages, and leave a hostile foreign power on our doorstep.”

“So what do you want to do?” Josephine cut in, “send an Orlesian army to assault a Ferelden fortress. We'll provoke a war.”

“She's right,” Cullen sighed, grateful again for Josephine's support and her keen political mind. “The magister has outplayed us. Our hands are tied. We must forget the mages, and focus on the templars.”

“No.” Rosalind's voice was quiet, but firm.

“My lady—“ Cullen began again, though he was frankly surprised. Rosalind was intelligent. How was she still refusing to see what was so patently obvious to him? Was her fear of templars able to override common sense?

“No,” she said again. “I have listened to you. To all of you.” She glanced around the room, acknowledging each of them in turn. “You say I am not a prisoner. You asked me to make this decision. So, if I am free, and if this decision is indeed mine to make, then you will listen and heed my counsel before,” her eyes flashed to Cullen's briefly, “disallowing any course of action.” At this, he felt his cheeks grow hot.

She waited, but none of the three of them spoke. All turned their attention to her.

Satisfied that they would indeed listen, she began. “The Magister's son, Felix, told me that Alexius is a member of a cult that is apparently obsessed with me. They want something from me, and they want it badly enough to practice a dangerous and unstable form of time magic, mess around with the rifts, and conscript a bunch of rebel Ferelden mages, thus involving themselves in a mage-templar war that, until this moment, Tevinter had nothing to do with. So, if I politely decline their invitation, I really don't think that Alexius will just let this go, do you?”

No one answered her.

“They will remain a powerful threat to me, and to the success of the Inquisition, unless we act.”

Cullen sighed. When she stated it like that, he had to agree that she had a point.

“But—“ Josephine began.

“No,” Rosalind said again. “No buts, no objections, no excuses. We need to deal with this. Don't tell me it's impossible. Work with me to make it possible. The Commander says a frontal assault is foolhardy,” her unreadable gaze flickered to Cullen, “and, from what I've read of Redcliffe, I tend to agree. So, we need another way into this fortress. Sneaking in as servants? Climbing through the sewers? Catapulting over the walls? Something.” Her hands raked through her short hair, leaving it a spiky mess, and Cullen saw her veneer of hard determination cracking ever so slightly, revealing the desperation, fear and exhaustion underneath. He doubted that anyone else noticed, though.

“Wait. . .” Leliana said slowly, “there is a way. A hidden passage for family to escape to safety.”

“But we cannot send the entire army through that. All Alexius would need is a few good archers to pin us down. We'll never make it into the castle.” Despite himself, Cullen was thinking through the plan, trying to find the logic that would allow this to work.

“Perhaps a few good agents?” Leliana suggested.

“Same problem,” Cullen replied. “What we need,” he mused, “is a distraction.”

“Like a mage with a glowing green anchor on her hand?” Rosalind quipped. “Why not accept the original invitation from Alexius? Will that be enough of a distraction?”

Cullen's heart sank. “Yes,” he conceded reluctantly. “If their attention is focused on Trevelyan, that should allow our agents to sneak in. It's risky, but it might work.” But how will I keep you safe? was what he wanted to say. But he didn't. He doubted it would go over well, after the way she had reacted to his disallowing of this plan in the first place.

“Fortunately,” a jovial voice broke in, as the doors to the war room were flung open, and a mage in Tevinter robes sauntered into their midst. “you'll have help. Hello Rosalind my darling.”

Josephine tensed and Cullen had his sword half-way out of it's sheath when Rosalind returned the man's smile and greeted him. “Hello, Dorian. I was wondering if I'd ever see you again.”

“Pining for me, were you?” Dorian laughed. “And it appears you didn't tell your dashing commander about me?” He flashed Cullen a wink.

It was then that Cullen noticed the way Cassandra was scowling and rolling her eyes. Exasperated. Not quite the reaction he would have expected from her when a Tevinter mage burst into the room.

 

*

The plans were set, and this new Tevinter mage (apostate number four, since Vivienne's arrival) was sauntering around and commenting on how common and muddy everything was. It was enough to set Cullens teeth on edge.

His head pounded, and his nerves were shot. This plan was ridiculous. So many things could go wrong. But the thing that bothered him the most was the idea of sending Rosalind into harm's way in the company of a Tevinter mage he had only just met. What if the man was a double agent? Or became an abomination half-way through the operation? It didn't bear thinking.

Cassandra had assured him that Dorian had been on their side at Redcliffe. And Leliana had already run a full background check on the man the moment Rosalind's report from Redcliffe had arrived. Both seemed to view Dorian as trustworthy to a point. Cullen had agreed to allow Dorian to accompany Leliana's agents as long as he and Cassandra accompanied Rosalind, reasoning that between the two of them they should be able to neutralize any of Dorian's abilities.

Rosalind and Dorian agreed.

And so it was that Rosalind, Cullen, Cassandra and Varric presented themselves at Redcliffe Castle a few days later, in answer to Alexius's invitation, while Leliana, Dorian and an elite group of assassins made their way through the hidden passage beneath the castle.

At least Cullen dearly hoped that was what they were doing.

Still everything seemed to go smoothly as far as he could see. There was one tense moment, where it seemed that only Rosalind was to be admitted into Alexius's company, but she made some smooth comment about the others being her attache or something, and all were admitted.

“Welcome,” Alexius said, when they were announced in his presence. “It is good to see you again, Lady Trevelyan. Hopefully we can finish this business in a way satisfactory both to Tevinter, and to the Inquisition.” A young and sickly looking man stood to his left. Cullen imagined that was Felix, his son.

Fiona suddenly appeared at Cullen's elbow. “Are we mages to have no say in our own fate?” she asked.

“My dear, you are an indentured servant,” Alexius replied mildly. “How exactly did you think servitude would work?” He chuckled to himself and a few of his attendants joined in.

“I'd actually be curious to hear what the Grand Enchanter has to say,” Rosalind said. “Fiona, you're welcome to join these negotiations as a guest of the Inquisition.” Fiona beamed, while Alexius frowned.

Cullen watched the exchange tensely. He had to give Rosalind, she seemed to know what she was doing. She had Alexius off balance with that move, and no mistake. He only hoped she hadn't angered the man too much.

Still, after a moment Alexius shrugged, and nodded his head in agreement, “Of course, Lady, if it is your wish that the mages of Redcliffe have some input, then it appears they shall. But, let's get down to business, shall we? The Inquisition needs mages to close the breach, and the mages are sworn to serve me. So, what do you offer in exchange for their indenture?”

Cullen saw one of Alexius's soldiers drop, and a brief flash of forest-green fabric behind him. He closed his eyes briefly and sent a quick prayer of thanks to the Maker. It appeared Leliana's agents had arrived.

“Oh, really now Alexius, there's no need to be all business right away. It seems so uncivilized. After all, it's not every day that I have the opportunity to pick the brain of a Tevinter Magister, is it? And there are so many things I'd like to know.” Rosalind said lightly.

“Such as?”

“Well, let's talk about time magic first, shall we?”

“I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean.” Alexius wore a bemused expression. It set Cullen's teeth on edge, but didn't seem to phase Rosalind in the slightest.

“No, I suppose not,” she conceded in a slightly bored voice. “Still, one wonders how you managed to get here within a day of Divine Justinia's death? Tevinter is several day's hard riding from here, after all. Quite the coincidence, wasn't it?”

“They know, father” Felix said softly.

“Felix, what have you done?” Alexius blanched.

“I've tried to save you from your own folly,” Felix replied.

“Your son is concerned about you,” Rosalind offered, taking a few steps towards the dais, as though her words might more effectively reach Alexius if she were physically closer to him. Cullen moved forward himself, gratified to hear Cassandra stepping up too, and cursing Rosalind for stepping so close to the enemy.

“Silence,” Alexius snapped. “You think you can stand here possessing stolen gifts you don't even understand and be in control? You are nothing but a mistake.”

“If you know so much, enlighten me. What was supposed to happen?” Rosalind shot back.

“You couldn't possibly understand. The Elder one has power you cannot comprehend. He will raise the Imperium from its ashes. He will return mages to their former glory. We will rule all of Thedas.”

Fiona gasped and Cullen was surprised to see her white as a sheet. “You cannot think to do this. I want only freedom for my people. Magic was never meant to rule over. . .”

“This is the only way,” Alexius shouted.

“You sound like a fanatic,” Dorian said, appearing at Rosalind's elbow. He was now closer to Rosalind than either Cullen or Cassandra were. Cullen heard Varric shifting Bianca off his shoulder and silently blessed the dwarf's foresight while fervently hoping such measures wouldn't be necessary.

“Dorian,” Alexius growled. “I should have known you were involved.”

“You need to stop this,” Dorian's voice was hard, with none of its former levity. “This is exactly what you and I agreed should never happen. Stop it now, while the damage is still reversible.”

“I can't. This is the only way. The Elder One promised to save Felix in exchange for the Lady Trevelyan's life. Venetori, seize them.”

This is it, Cullen thought, turning around tensely to see how many agents had made it through the secret tunnel with Dorian. But he needn't have worried. All Alexius's Venatori agents fell, either stunned or dead, with Leliana's assassins standing behind them.

He felt a moment's satisfaction, followed quickly by fear as Alexius's face twisted is despair and fury. “You are a mistake,” Alexius hissed at Rosalind. “This is the only way. For Felix.” And he cast a spell.

A flash of light filled the room, dazzling Cullen's eyes. He saw Dorian fling himself in front of Rosalind screaming “Alexius, no!” and deflect the spell.

And then. . . nothing. True, for a moment it appeared as though both Rosalind and Dorian had vanished. But Cullen blinked, his hand tightening on his pommel, and there they both were again. He breathed a sigh of relief. It appeared the spell had failed, or Dorian's counter had been successful.

“You'll have to do better than that,” Dorian called out, looking as cocky as he ever did, though his clothing looked decidedly more wet and rumpled than it had a moment ago. And was that blood on his sleeve?

Rosalind looked white as a sheet, and there was most definitely blood in her hair. Cullen feared that it might be hers, but she seemed unhurt. She glanced quickly at Cullen and Cassandra, taking a deep steadying breath, and Cullen found himself fearing that the spell had not been as benign as he hoped. Still, in a moment her shoulders squared and she turned to face Alexius.

“Give up,” she said, “and surrender to the Inquisition.”

Alexius's eyes darted from Rosalind to Dorian, a look of pure disbelief on his face. He collapsed to his knees, saying “you've won,” and was taken into custody then and there.

It seemed it was over before it had even begun. For all his tension, and his fears, Alexius had given up with surprising ease. Cullen stepped up beside Rosalind. “Are you hurt?” he asked in a low tone.

She flashed a twisted, almost painful smile. “No, but—“

But whatever more she'd wanted to say was cut off by the appearance of Queen Anora, and the immediate need to deal with the rebel mages.

*


	6. Elusive Prayer

*

“You made them free allies?” Cullen hissed, riding beside her on the way back to Haven. Rosalind swayed in her saddle, looking at him with dull eyes, but couldn't find the words to reply. Her mind was a blank slate of horror. And every time she closed her eyes, all she saw was a dark future.

“Maybe she was thinking that the Inquisition was better than a group of Tevinter Cultists. You are better than them, yes?” Dorian shot back, his face looking unnaturally flushed. She could only wonder how he was still sitting so erect in his saddle. She felt like a sack of potatoes in her own.

“Commander,” Rosalind pleaded, “Can we debate this later?”

“It's not a matter for debate, my lady. You know that. You lived in the circle. There will be abominations, and we do not have the resources to deal with them. Mages are dangerous when unchecked.”

“And would those resources miraculously appear if I made the mages our prisoner?” Rosalind snapped back, unable to control her emotions. She felt the hectic sparks of electricity building beneath her skin, and pursed her lips together, commanding the mana within to be still, before she accidentally proved Cullen's point for him.

“What were you thinking? Turning mages loose with no oversight. The veil is torn open.”

“Is it?” Rosalind sneered. “I hadn't noticed. It's not as though I have a charming miniature of it to carry with me everywhere I go.” She yanked the glove off her left hand, wiggling her fingers before her own face. If she was unable to give free license to the lightning snaking along her veins, it seemed she would have to give license to sarcasm.

This is childish, she reprimanded herself. But she was so tired, and so frightened, she was past caring. How dare he chastise me for this? How dare he. If he knew. If he had seen.

But he hadn't. None of them had, save Dorian, steadfastly riding behind her, nodding encouragement.

“This is serious, Herald. I thought you, of all people, would know that. You claim to know why magic should be feared.” Cullen muttered, scowling like a thundercloud.

At that, the fire and anger drained away, leaving Rosalind feeling empty. “I do,” she said. “But we need them to close the breach. Surely it's more fearful than anything else right now.”

Cullen frowned. “I know we need them, lady. But you must agree that hundreds of apostates could do as much damage as the demons themselves. Maybe more.”

Mages are monsters. It was unspoken. But it was there. In the white lines of fear around his mouth, and in the tremble in his hand as he held the reins. He was afraid.

“If you believe that, you don't really understand what we're dealing with,” Dorian supplied, with a chuckle.

“Then tell me,” Cullen hissed. “What could be worse than hundreds of unchecked apostates.”

“Later,” Rosalind said, and she refused to answer any more of Cullen's questions, concentrating instead on keeping her seat, and not starting an electrical storm in her irritation.

*

As if four apostates weren't enough. Now there were hundreds. The horror of that was enough to keep a man awake at night. And it was indeed keeping Cullen awake.

The thoughts circled his mind, denying him sleep into the wee hours of the night after their arrival home from Redcliffe. They'd ridden hard all afternoon, Fiona's promise to gather the rebel mages and journey to Haven to meet them as allies rattling around in Cullen's skull.

Rosalind insisted that she needed to meet with the advisers, and debrief them on what had happened, though Cullen couldn't see why. He'd seen what had happened. It had all gone off without a hitch. Except that now they were allies with hundreds of unsupervised mages.

In any case, everyone was too weary upon arrival in Haven and it was decided that Rosalind's debrief would have to wait until morning. Rosalind herself was nearly falling out of her saddle with exhaustion, as was Dorian. Truly it was bizarre to behold the two of them. One would think a pitched battle had been waged, to look at them. The Seeker had half-carried Rosalind to her tent, frowning in confusion at the other woman's fatigue. Dorian, for his part, had curled up in the nearest cabin, declaring it his. Cullen had no idea whether it was occupied or not, and decided he didn't want to know. He simply had too much to deal with to worry about where the Tevinter mage chose to sleep.

As if a dirty-mouthed elf archer and a Quanari spy weren't enough to deal with. As if Chancellor Roderick and the friction between the mages and templars already present in Haven weren't enough. Now there were hundreds of apostates about to descend upon this camp, and Cullen felt as though he were losing control.

He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to keep Rosalind and the anchor safe. It was all too much to deal with. And, as it so often did when Cullen felt overwhelmed, the sweet promise of lyrium itched at the back of his mind. If only he took some he'd be stronger, have better energy, more endurance, and the focus he needed to ensure they all got out of this alive. If he allowed it to sing through his veins, he might be able to pull the next stage of this insane plan off. He might be able to help her close the rift.

And if he didn't. If he refused, and people died. If they lost Cassandra, or if Varric fell. If they lost Rosalind. . .

He would only have himself to blame. He would have to live knowing that he could have been stronger, and had chosen to be weak.

He knew there was lyrium in the camp. They had enough mages milling around that someone must have it. It would be easy to find. He just had to look.

He rose from his bed in the black of night, and left his tent.

He did what he so often did when these thoughts plagued him.

He went to the Chantry.

He moved noiselessly through the building, not wanting to wake Josephine, who often slept in her office these days, and slipped into the side room that had been dedicated to Andraste now that the main areas of the Chantry were being used as places of operation by the Inquisition.

He was gratified to see Andraste's statue at the end of the room, feeling a peace fill him that Andraste's presence always brought. There were candles lit at her feet, and Cullen had a moment to wonder who had done that, before he realized he wasn't alone.

Rosalind was there.

She sat at the feet of Andraste, gazing up. She was not kneeling in prayer, but sat hugging her knees to her chest. Her back was to him, and she had not heard him enter the room.

She was crying. It was soft, muffled and controlled. Her shoulders didn't even shake. But she was crying.

“This is too much,” she whispered, her voice so faint that Cullen could barely hear it. “This is too much. I can't do it. Maxwell, please, I can't do it.”

Silence fell, and Cullen realized that he was eavesdropping. He should leave, or make his presence known, or go to her. Maker, where had that thought come from?

“I miss you so much, Max,” she whispered again. “And I really wish you were here. If you were here, maybe I could do this. When you believed, then I could believe too. But without you I don't. Max . . . Max I don't. I don't believe in the Maker, or in Andraste. I can't be her chosen. I can't stop what I saw,” and something about the way she said 'saw' caused Cullen's flesh to prickle with unease. “It's too much. I'm going to fail.” Her voice broke on the last word, a sob catching in her throat. But she ruthlessly suppressed it and fell silent again, hugging her knees tight.

And now he knew he should leave. This was no simple prayer. It was incredibly private. And she had come here to be alone. He turned to go, and like a buffoon bashed his elbow into the still open door.

It swung on its hinges, slamming closed with a deafening clap.

Rosalind was on her feet facing him in a moment, raising her hands to cast, the room sizzling with her electricity, her eyes burning with anger and a steely determination.

She looks magnificent, Cullen thought, his own heart thrumming in terror, remembering why mages should be feared. He resisted the urge to smite her or silence her, fighting back his own fear. Instead, he raised his palms, showing that he bore no weapon, but he needn’t have. The moment she saw who it was, Rosalind dropped her hands and the electricity in the room dissipated.

“Commander,” she said steadily, squaring her shoulders with a dignity that belied her disheveled hair and tear-stained cheeks.

“My lady, I apologize. I was unable to sleep and often find prayer restful. I didn't expect anyone else to be in here.” Idiot he thought, in shame. You should have made your presence known right away. He could feel his face burning with embarrassment and could see a flush of colour staining her own cheeks. She must know, or suspect, that he had heard her. Must know that he could see she'd been crying.

“Oh, I see,” she replied awkwardly. “Well. . . I was just leaving. So, I'll leave you to your prayer.” And she gathered her cloak from the ground, wrapping it around herself and pulling up the hood, as though she could hide from him this way. Her hands shook badly as she did so, and she swayed slightly on her feet, fatigue vivid in every line of her body. But she still accorded him a dignified nod before walking past him and opening the recently slammed door.

Go to her! He thought again, and before he could second-guess that thought, his hand closed gently on her shoulder. Not holding her back if she wished to leave, but resting there. “Are you well, my lady?” he asked.

*

At the slamming of the door to the little shrine to Andraste, she jumped, propelled into action before her wits could catch up. The horrors she'd witnessed in the past twenty-four hours (did it still count as twenty-four hours if one were transported a year into the future?) leaving her nerves frayed. The panicked electricity that had been sparking inside her the entire ride home frantic for release.

Was it the demon army?

Or the Elder One himself here to finish what Alexius had started?

She was casting as she rose, determined to meet this threat head-on.

It was Cullen. Looking profoundly embarrassed, and decidedly terrified as her electrical storm filled the room. His terror struck her to the core, reminding her of what she was. A monster to be feared. And now you've set hundreds of other monsters free. Well done, 'Herald.' she thought, as she hastily pulled her magic back.

The fear drained from his face, replaced with wariness and evident embarrassment. It was too much for her. Rosalind desperately wondered how much he had heard, and how devout an Andrastean he was. It was bad enough that she had inadvertently alienated Cassandra with her heretical disbelief, but if she lost another member of her inner circle too, things would become strained, to say the least, at the war table.

And they were already strained to the breaking point with her choice not only to approach the mages, but to make them allies instead of prisoners.

“What could be worse than hundreds of apostates. You know why magic should be feared.' She did. She remembered it all to clearly. Even now. Even all these years later. A creature half-child half-demon, with a templar blade sunk deep into his belly. Don't think of that! But she couldn't condemn men and women to live in chains again. Even if it was the safe choice, she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Why did I come here in the first place? she thought, resisting the urge to try to tidy her unruly hair and wipe the tears from her cheeks that she was certain Cullen could see. But she knew why. Coming to the Chantry didn't make her feel closer to Andraste, or the Maker, but it did make her feel closer to Max. And she desperately missed his steady, grounding presence. His laughter. And the way in which he could take any problem she faced, and convince her that she could overcome it.

She'd come to talk to Max.

That was, admittedly, ridiculous. Maxwell was dead. He was dead. And sitting at the feet of a stone statue and muttering to herself wasn't talking to Max. It was talking to herself.

Which was—she was reasonably sure—a sign of madness.

She felt her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment, and her legs shake with exhaustion. Tomorrow, everyone would think she was mad anyway, as she tried to explain how a time-spell gone awry had resulted in Dorian and herself being flung a year into the future.

She had only Dorian's word to support her own, and she suspected the word of a Tevinter mage wasn't going to go over well. If she hadn't been there. If she hadn't seen them.

Cassandra and Varric going to their doom to buy Rosalind and Dorian the time they needed to escape, claiming to be dead already, with a soft eerie red glow of despair hanging around their eyes.

Leliana, her face alight with that impossible certainty of belief that Rosalind both envied and mistrusted, standing between them and an army of demons, whispering the chant of light as the monsters relentlessly cut her down.

Cullen, clutching Rosalind's hands through his cell door, his body a fertile ground for red lyrium. There was a feverish glint of guilt in his dull eyes, as he cursed himself for weakness. “I should have taken the lyrium, Lady. If I had . . . if I had taken it, perhaps I could have stopped Alexius a year ago. Perhaps none of this would have come to pass. I should have taken it!” A chilling laugh broke from his lips, and a shaft of red lyrium blossomed from his breast. “I should have taken it. Forgive me, Rosalind. Forgive me.” A litany he repeated over and over, refusing to release her fingers from a vice-like grip.

She closed her eyes, banishing the memories, and focusing on the present. If she hadn't seen them, if she heard this story from someone else, she would assume that Dorian had played some trick on them. That this was an elaborate Tevinter plot to cause her downfall through madness. If she hadn't seen them, touched them, heard their cries of despair as they died. It was too much. She needed Max.

And Maxwell was dead.

Cullen was looking at her now, in the soft glow of Andraste's candles, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, and explaining something about insomnia and prayer.

She cleared her throat and scooped up her discarded cloak, wrapping it around herself like a shield. “Oh, I see,” she said, though she didn't. She'd only been half-listening. What she'd seen when she looked at Cullen was the man, a year from now, broken and corrupted by red lyrium. Repeating an apology over and over like a prayer. Ending his days in guilt and regret, certain he had been the cause of that nightmarish future. The vision tore at her mind the way his cold hands had gripped her fingers through the bars, grinding the small bones together in desperation and pain.

She needed to be alone, or she would go mad. She needed to think, to breathe, and to calm down, or she would go mad. “Well, I was just leaving,” she mumbled, making some excuse and heading for the door.

His hand descended, warm and solid, on her shoulder. Not cold. Not shaking. Not gripping. “Are you well, my lady?” he asked.

Rosalind stiffened under the question, a lie or a joke rising to the tip of her tongue automatically. But her throat was thick with raw emotion, and refused to open to admit the words. She turned to face him, her hand rising of its own accord to rest atop his own, reassuring herself that he was warm, and whole, and not ravaged by tainted lyrium.

She looked into his face, deeply stained with embarrassment, but also furrowed in concern. Genuine care warming his soft brown eyes. All signs of wariness gone.

She choked on the lies she meant to tell him. To speak them here, under Andraste's gaze, seemed blasphemous. A dishonoring of Cullen's overture of care. She choked, and fell against him, burying her face against his chest and sobbing uncontrollably. Her hands fisted in the deep red velvet of his cloak, and she clung to him as though he could stop her slide into despair with just his physical presence.

Stop! A corner of her mind called out in mortification. She meant to. She tried to heed that voice, before things got even more awkward. Tried to pull away, her mind flailing for some excuse for her ill mannered behaviour. But his arms came around her in a gentle embrace, and she couldn't stop. She was so tired, and so afraid and so deeply deeply sad, and she had denied these emotions for so long.

She couldn't stop.

And she didn't. Not for a very long time.

Through it all, he held her. He said nothing. Did nothing. Just held her in a soft embrace and waited.

At long last, exhaustion won out over emotion, and her body stilled against his. Slowly, she stepped away, breaking free from the loose circle of his arms. He let her go, still saying nothing.

“Thank you,” she whispered, still looking at his chest, afraid to raise her eyes to meet his. She could see where her head had rested. She'd left a dark, wet, stain against his tunic. “And I—I apologize. That was uncalled for and y—you shouldn't have to deal with. . . I apologize. It's been a long. . .” Year that hasn't happened yet? “—day. I—I hope I haven't ruined your shirt. I'll replace it if. . . I mean. . . I don't really have any money and I'm not much good at sewing. But. . .” Shut up and get out of here! She silently cursed herself. She was babbling, hands still lightly fisted in his cloak. She eased her fingers free and took another step back. “I should be going. It's late.” She turned to the open doorway, desperate to make her escape.

“Lady Trevelyan, what has happened?” Cullen asked, a hint of apprehension in his voice. “Who's Max?”

Startled, Rosalind glanced up, and saw the moment he realized that his question illuminated just how long he had stood behind her watching her cry. He had the decency to look uncomfortable as she met his gaze, her own face growing hot. “Maxwell,” she said hoarsely. Impossibly, saying her brother's name caused a new well of grief to open inside her, and she felt treacherous tears pricking her eyes again. She wondered, dimly, if she might simply die of dehydration from crying too much. It did sound like a very ladylike way to go. Her father would no doubt approve. “He was my brother.”

“Was?” Cullen asked.

“He was at the Conclave.” Rosalind turned quickly, before she could see another look of sympathy on his face, and dashed from the room.

Mercifully, Cullen didn't follow her.

*

Prayer eluded him that night, as did sleep. For what felt like a long time after Rosalind left, Cullen stood in Andraste's presence, cursing himself for a fool. He'd seen her exhaustion, and fear, as the weight of all their hopes and prayers descended on her shoulders. He'd seen it. Seen powerful emotions cross her face in those brief moments when that studied neutrality had slipped. Why hadn't he approached her sooner? Offered her comfort? Asked her if she was well? Why hadn't he done what Varric had asked of him?

The answer to that was painfully obvious. He was afraid of her. Uneasy in her presence. And wary of beholding her own fear of him. And while he worried about abominations, and tried to convince himself that he wasn't a templar anymore, her heart was silently breaking.

Why hadn't Leliana told him that Rosalind's brother had perished in the Conclave?

The answer to that was obvious too. Leliana was too focused on the task at hand. In recent years, Sister Nightingale had become a hard, ruthless woman, with blinders on when it came to anything outside the mission. And the mission was to close the breach, and bring Divine Justinia's killers to justice. Anything else, like grief or love, was a weakness that Leliana would not dwell upon.

With an effort, Cullen had pushed his own guilt behind him. He had not done what was needful before. But he knew Rosalind's pain now, and could do something about it. As the cold grey light of morning touched the horizon, Cullen formulated a plan.

*


	7. For Those Who Were Lost

*

 

“This is going to sound mad, I know” Rosalind said in a clear voice. She stood tall, chin raised, meeting the gaze of each of her advisers in turn, even Cullen's. The instinctive need to ignore the templar was strong, and made doubly so by her embarrassment over her behaviour the night before. But she didn't drop her gaze, meeting his eyes squarely, and allowing her face to settle into an impassive mask, refusing to allow herself to show the way in which her stomach turned over when she saw him. Refusing to remember the comfort she'd felt in his arms. “But what you witnessed yesterday at Redcliffe Castle was not the entirety of what happened. Alexius cast a spell.”

“Which failed,” Cassandra observed.

“Actually, it didn't. Or not entirely, anyway,” Dorian cut in.

“He's right,” Rosalind said. “The spell was another use of time magic. It was meant to erase me from time entirely, we think. But, thanks to Dorian, it cast us both a year into the future.”

“What?” Josephine gasped.

“Interesting,” Leliana drawled, neither accepting nor rejecting the story.

“Impossible,” Cassandra exclaimed, “Herald, we saw you in the hall the entire time.”

“Well of course you did. It's time magic after all. We fought our way back to the exact time at which we left,” Dorian supplied.

Cullen said nothing. But he was frowning, considering her words. She met his gaze again and he gave her an imperceptible nod of encouragement. She flashed him a brief smile, and continued. Telling them everything, Dorian helpfully jumping in to supply any details that she'd missed.

Well. . . not everything. She didn't speak of Cullen's lyrium-racked body. Or of his guilt. And, mercifully, Dorian didn't supply those details.

Even so, it took a long time, and her voice was raw by the time she ended. When she did, silence descended upon the room, as three faces regarded her with varying expressions of incredulity.

Cassandra was the first to speak. She rounded on Dorian, hissing “what have you done?”

“Cassandra, stop,” Leliana said, placing herself between the Seeker and the Tevinter mage.

“But this is ludicrous,” Josephine sputtered.

Rosalind's heart guttered low in her chest. She needed these people. Needed them if she was to survive this and defeat this Elder One. But she had no other proof than the strength of her word. If they didn't believe her. . .

“Actually, it makes quite a lot of sense,” Cullen broke in.

Everyone, Rosalind included, turned to him.

He looked startled, for a moment, to be the center of everyone's attention. “Ah . . .well. We know that Alexius was messing with time magic. The rifts around Redcliffe are a testament to that. And it explains how he was able to arrive at Redcliffe in such a timely manner. And,” he caught Rosalind's eyes, his own filled was the same kind of warm compassion he'd shown her last night. She bit her lip, her chest feeling suddenly too tight. “you had blood in your hair, my lady. After Alexius cast his spell, you had blood in your hair. I—I thought you were gone. Both of you,” he nodded a Dorian, “But only for a moment. And when you returned, you looked different. Disheveled. It makes sense.”

“Thank you,” Rosalind said.

“Maker,” Cassandra said softly, frowning. “All right, it's a possible explanation. But, whatever this dark future holds, we need to deal with the Breach first.”

“I agree,” Leliana said. “When the mages arrive, our new allies, we need to be ready.”

Rosalind tensed at that glancing involuntarily at Cullen. He was looking at her too, with a deep frown of concern. She expected him to say something, to object—again—to the alliance she'd made. He'd certainly been vocal enough about it on the way home from Redcliffe yesterday, though she'd barely heard half of what he'd said. But he said nothing, simply nodding his own assent.

Maybe I embarrassed us both with my outburst last night she thought, wondering if there was at least one, small, silver lining to the whole situation.

“Excellent,” Dorian said. “Well, I'll just leave the four of you to sort that out, then shall I?”

“I'm still watching you,” Cassandra warned.

“Of course you are, darling. How could I blame you for that? I am well worth watching.” Dorian flashed a wink at Rosalind, and was out the door before anyone could say anything else.

“I should be going too. I need to make arrangements for the mages,” Josephine said.

“Before you go,” Cullen broke in again, speaking oddly fast, “there is one more matter.”

Ah. . . so maybe no silver lining, Rosalind thought, but held her face expressionless.

“Oh?” Josephine asked.

“It occurs to me,” Cullen was rubbing the back of his neck and staring at the floor. He didn't exactly look angry. More. . . unsure of himself, “that we have not given ourselves time to mourn those we lost at the Conclave.”

Everyone, Rosalind included, raised their eyebrows at this.

“Cassandra, Leliana, I—I know how much Divine Justinia meant to both of you. And there were others, as well, who are, I'm sure, deeply missed.” His eyes caught Rosalind's own, soft, golden brown and full of an understanding she didn't deserve, and she couldn't look away. “I thought, perhaps we could. . . ah. . . have a service. A memorial.”

“That. . “ Cassandra's throat sounded as thick as Rosalind's felt now, her words coming with a great effort, “that would be . . . wonderful,” she breathed. Rosalind stared at the other woman, as a new piece of the puzzle slotted into place in her mind. Whoever Divine Justinia was, she had meant a great deal to Cassandra. Enough that the woman lashed out at anyone who might conceivably be responsible for her death. Like a wounded animal in great pain.

Rosalind found, to her great surprise, that her heart went out to the Seeker in that moment.

Leliana frowned, shaking her head. “It's a kind idea, Cullen,” she said with deep regret, “but I'm afraid it's unrealistic. We are branded as heretics, harbouring the person many still believe responsible for the divine's death,” she gestured at Rosalind. “If we were to do this. . .”

“Leliana is right, unfortunately. We'd be seen as hypocrites.” Josephine sighed, rubbing her brow.

“So the problem is me,” Rosalind held herself very erect, her face frozen in neutrality. She would not react to this. She would not. “Then, I suggest that I not attend. Mourning is. . . important. And I would not want my presence to interfere.” She reached out to Cassandra, taking her hand for a moment, gratified when the other woman allowed it. “You should say goodbye. I—I'll take a group of people to the Storm Coast or something. Still plenty to do before the mages arrive—“

“No,” Cullen broke in too loudly. Rosalind startled, dropping Cassandra's hand. He cleared his throat, “no,” he said more gently. “You should be here, my lady. There's no need to have a grand ceremony. I—I thought we'd simply do something small. I've already spoken to Mother Giselle, who is willing to officiate.”

“Oh,” Josephine replied. “Yes. A private celebration of life should be fine. Just for members of the Inquisition. Small, but tasteful. Give me two days?” At the others' assent, she nodded, turning to leave and already muttering about flower center pieces.

Leliana embraced Cullen softly. “It's just what we need,” she said quietly, tears running down her cheeks, before leaving to take care of her own business.

Cassandra, too, with tears in her eyes, gave Cullen a quick fierce hug, before nodding to Rosalind and leaving.

Leaving Rosalind alone with the Commander. She hadn't meant for that to happen. “I—ah. . .Thank you, Commander.” she managed to say. It wasn't enough to encompass what she was feeling. Wasn't nearly enough to explain the way in which this small suggestion had given her license to feel anything at all, and to realize how much she needed this. Needed to allow herself to feel. Even if it was pain.

“Not at all,” Cullen replied, approaching her slowly. She licked her lips, suddenly feeling that the war room was far too small. There was no where to back up, unless she wanted to circle around the table and make him chase her like an idiot. But before she could identify the fluttering in her chest that wasn't quite fear, he'd stopped, still a good three feet away from her. “I had wondered if you'd like to say something.”

“What?”

He dropped his gaze, and she was surprised to find she missed the warm intensity of those soft brown eyes. As though they might have the power to melt the numb chill she'd felt around her heart since waking up in the dungeon under Cassandra's formidable glare.“For your brother, I mean. At the service. I didn't want to put you on the spot, my lady. But. . . I can mention it to Josephine, if you would like to.”

“Oh. . .” was all she managed to say, her brain still too numb, still overcome with the emotions she had dammed up for so long.

“Or not,” he said, hurriedly.

“No,” she replied, trying to sound firm, confident. “I would like that, I think.”

Cullen nodded. “I'll see to it,” he said. His hand patted her shoulder, once, awkwardly, as he brushed past her and headed for Josephine's office. And, other than the embarrassment of last night, she couldn't remember the last time someone had offered her the comfort of a simple touch.

At least this time you didn't fall to pieces like an idiot she thought. Though she did stand in the war room for several minutes, trying to seal this well of emotion that, now freshly opened, didn't seem to want to ever close again.

*

The memorial service was small, and tasteful. Josephine had done a wonderful job, not that there was ever really any doubt. It was held in the courtyard of Haven. A small dais was erected, and flowers and refreshments laid out on tables. Chairs were supplied for those who could not stand. It was elegant in it's simplicity. Under the brilliant, dazzling winter sky, amid sparkling snow, they gathered to say farewell.

Mother Giselle led them in hymn and prayer, dedicating the body of Divine Justinia unto the Maker, and calling on Andraste to watch over those left behind.

Cassandra and Leliana had both given eulogies. Leliana's was surprising, detailing herself as a young, foolish girl caught up in court intrigues gone awry, and the Divine as a woman who deftly reached down, plucking Leliana from her wasted life, and giving her purpose. Her eyes shone as she spoke, wearing the same expression she'd worn in that dark future, the year that had not come to pass. The year where she'd sacrificed herself calmly so that Rosalind and Dorian might live.

It twisted Rosalind's heart beyond what she thought she could endure, but she'd taken a deep breath, and her eyes remained dry.

And then Josephine had read the names. All the names of those who had been lost.

It was a long list. Muffled sobs filled Rosalind's ears as the list went on, every now and then punctuated with a soft whimper. And there were also muffled whispers, accusations, and glances Rosalind's way. Clearly there were many who still shared Chancellor Roderick's belief that Rosalind was, somehow, responsible for these deaths. It angered her, but she refused to let that anger show on her face.

Near the end, Josephine stuttered over a name. “Maxwell, Alexander, Cornelius, T—oh!” Rosalind closed her eyes and bit her lip, feeling a hot sting of tears behind her lids. Josephine cleared her throat, and continued, “Trevelyan.”

There was a collective gasp, and Rosalind could not open her eyes to see. She knew, without looking, that everyone had turned to watch her. She held still, eyes closed, feeling the blood drain from her face, as Josephine read off the last few names on the list.

And then the personal eulogies began. There was a cook who had lost an uncle, two new conscripts who had lost their mother, and a member of Leliana's spy network who had lost a dear friend. Several people had known someone, been related to someone, or loved someone who was now, inexplicably, dead. For many, it was why they had joined.

Many others spoke of the Divine. And while they may not have known her the way Cassandra and Leliana knew her, she had stood as a symbol of power, and peace. She had mattered to them. Their grief was an abstract grief. The grief of a lost ideal. But it was still real.

And then, Josephine glanced at Rosalind, eyebrows raised. She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and wiping tears from her eyes, and nodded. And Josephine welcomed her to the small dais erected in the courtyard.

*

As Rosalind walked to the dais, a soft murmur drifted through the crowd, and Cullen felt his stomach roll over in fear. Many people wore expressions of sympathy, or curiosity, but there were many, too many, who wore expressions of open hostility. And he heard the word 'murderer' echo softly from several quarters.

He hadn't thought that would happen. Not among their own people. Fortunately, it appeared that Leliana had, and Cullen could see her agents surreptitiously positioning themselves to safeguard Rosalind and subdue the crowd, should it be needful.

She looked white as a sheet, standing on the dais before them. But her gaze was level, and her eyes were dry. Just as she had been two days ago when she'd told them of her trip into the future. Calm. Fearless. In control.

There was no sign of the woman who had cried herself to exhaustion against Cullen's chest three nights before. Had been no sign of her since she'd fled, leaving him behind in the Chantry. Varric was right Cullen thought, she is cold. But he remembered the sensation of standing on a frozen surface over a raging river, and he knew despite surface appearances, that her emotions ran deep.

Her black eyes lifted, taking in the crowd before her, and then she spoke. “You are all here because you have lost something,” she said, her clear and steady voice carrying to every corner of the assembled crowd. “Something precious, and dear, was taken—stolen—from each and every one of you. Some of you might have heard the rumor that I was the one to steal it,”

A murmur flew through the crowd. Cullen drew a sharp breath, scanning the crowd in fear, as she exposed this truth before the people of the Inquisition. He had intended this to be a simple memorial, but Rosalind appeared to have other ideas.

“I'm here to tell you that something. . . someone was stolen from me too. My brother. Maxwell. I would never have done anything to place him in danger, and would give anything to see him safe. I'm here to mourn with you. Because Max was. . .” her voice faltered momentarily, but she swallowed again and continued, “Max was the one member of my family who looked at me without fear. We know, I know, that mages should be feared. I know it more than most.” Her eyes took on a far away look, as she gazed past the crowd, seeing a memory that Cullen could only guess at. “But it takes it's toll, being feared all the time. Maxwell remembered that mages are just people. And that the Maker made us all according to his design. And when Max ruffled my hair, or tickled my ribs, or teased me, he did it because he was my older brother. And older brothers are meant to be brats.”

A soft chuckle went through the crowd.

“But he also did it because I was his little sister. Not just a mage. Not just something to be feared. But something worthy of friendship. Of love. Someone who deserved to laugh.” The words twisted something deep in Cullen's gut. “Believe me. I did not kill the Divine. I did not steal the lives of these precious people. I would not inflict a wound that would cut myself so deeply. I'm not that stupid.”

Another soft chuckle met this, and Rosalind's lips turned in a wry smile. Cullen felt himself relax as he scanned the crowd. She was winning them over. Hostile faces were melting into curious, considering ones before his very eyes.

“I know you are angry, and afraid,” she continued. “And you should know that I—I am too. I lost my best friend at the Conclave. The only family I ever felt I belonged to.” Her voice broke again, and again she stopped, taking a deep steadying breath. But again, she continued, with a steely determination that stunned Cullen. “He was taken from me. And the anger I feel at that is inexpressible.” As she spoke, a wind tore through the crowd, tainted with a frigid chill, and a fierce taste of magic. Gone, in a moment.

“But I am also afraid. I am afraid to live without him. Afraid that whatever took him will just keep taking, and taking, until there is nothing left in my life that is good, and joyful, and worthy of laughter.” She flexed the fingers of her left hand, the anchor glowing softly. “And those fearful thoughts lead only one place. . . despair. I've come close to falling in to that despair.” She met Cullen's gaze, picking him out with ease in the crowd, as though she had known from the start where he stood, though she hadn't looked at him once before now. “But an unexpected gesture of compassion by a member of the Inquisition saved me from that fall. And it taught me something. Anger is good. Anger will keep us alive. But fear, and despair, must be fought. And we can't fight those alone. We need each other. We need to stand together.”

Several people nodded at this.

“Whatever we were before, whoever we've lost, and wherever we used to belong, we are now, all of us, members of the Inquisition. We belong here. We belong with each other. Together, we are strong enough to heal these wounds.”

The cheer rose around her words, becoming almost deafening.

Rosalind waited out this crescendo of emotion, her eyes now fixed unerringly on the angry green tear in the sky, her face twisted with pain, but also oddly calm and resigned. The cries died, as others followed her gaze.

“I'll miss you, Max,” Rosalind said softly, her voice breaking again, and her shoulders sagging, tears finally allowed to flow down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around herself, as though to physically hold herself together, and Josephine hurried onto the dais, gently placing an arm around Rosalind's shoulder and leading her away.

The crowd slowly dispersed, many heading for the pub, to continue holding a wake in true Fereldon tradition.

As Cullen moved through the camp, he felt the shift in mood. There was a genuine camaraderie now, a sense of common purpose. If before they had been a motley collection of individuals thrown together by circumstance and need, each pursuing his own ends, now they were united.

Rosalind had done that.

She'd taken his simple idea and transformed it into a vehicle for change.

“That was. . . extraordinary,” Cassandra said, coming up beside him, tears drying on her cheeks.

“She was, wasn't she?” Cullen replied without thinking. “Uh—I mean, it was a good service.”

Cassandra eyed him for a moment, and then nodded firmly. “It was, and she was. I think the Maker chose correctly when he sent her to us. She is just what we need.” She smiled, looking more hopeful than she had in weeks, and headed towards the Herald.

Cullen frowned, watching Rosalind accept a kiss on the cheek from Josephine, and a rib-cracking hug from Iron Bull. Then there was a clasped hand, and a tender word from Blackwall, and a gentle embrace and soft whisper in the ear from Solas. Varric hugged her next, and said something that made everyone assembled laugh, and Sera handed her a beer while Vivienne straightened the collar of her shirt and tucked a hair behind her ear. She was loved. She was adored.

Maybe she had been chosen by the Maker.

He hadn't seriously considered that thought before. For some reason, it didn't fill him with comfort. Instead, it filled him with regret, thought he couldn't say why.

Cassandra approached Rosalind, and the others fell back, giving her room. She said something, and Rosalind shook her head, tears pouring down her cheeks. She fell on Cassandra's neck, and the two women held each other, crying softly. And then they beckoned Leliana over, enveloping her in an embrace, the three of them hugging fiercely.

And then even more people approached, wishing to share their sorrow with the Herald of Andraste.

Cullen turned away as the crowd around Rosalind swelled, feeling as though he had no place here.

What right did he have to monopolize the time of one divinely touched?

*  
That night, for the first night in a month, Rosalind found that sleep came easily. And with sleep, came dreams of Max.

“Hey, Squirt. Nice party you had for me,” Maxwell said, ruffling her hair.

Rosalind batted his hand away, annoyed. “It was a wake, Max, not a party. You're dead, remember.”

“Yes, thank you. Maker, Rosalind, you do know how to put a man in his place, don't you. Nothing is quite so devastating as being reminded that you're dead.” He was 18, in new Chantry Brother robes. The age he'd been when they let him take his vows. He'd come home that summer, to show them all his new vestments, and tell them about his new life. That was the summer he'd learned the secret Rosalind had been desperately keeping in terrified silence for over a year.

“But, come on, it's a party. And I do look good, right?” He whirled in front of her, his new robes crisp and clean.

“You do, Max.”

“Yeah, even my hair looks good. Yours doesn't. Did you hack it off with a knife.”

“Something like that. Yeah.”

“Well, sis. Aren't you going to congratulate me?”

“On what? Dying?”

“Come on. Give your favorite brother a hug. Huh?” Max had opened his arms wide.

A small part of Rosalind's mind, the part that knew she was dreaming, screamed out in protest that she shouldn't touch Max, much less hug him. That's how he found out! But she did.

And then a woman screamed. It was the stupid scullery maid screaming at a mouse. She knew that now. But she hadn't known that then. In fear, she cast a barrier to protect her brother before even thinking about it.

“What in Andraste's name was that?” Max asked, as the barrier settled over both of them. “Did you do that?”

She realized her mistake instantly, breaking out into a cold sweat. “I'm sorry. Shit, Max. Shit.”

“Rosalind, what was that?” He was reaching out his finger, testing the edges of the barrier with a bemused expression on his face.

“You can't tell. Please. I'm not a mage. I'm not. Please, Max. Shit.”

“Hey, it's okay. This is a blessing. You've been chosen by the Maker, Squirt. Chosen to serve mankind.”

“No. No I haven't. Shit. Fuck. Maxwell, just please. If you love me at all, please just don't say anything. Please.”

The woman screamed again. Or maybe it was a different woman.

Run. Run. Warn them.

Rosalind whipped her head around, trying to find the source of that voice, but everything was dark and misty, and horror twisted her belly like a living thing.

She turned back to Max, but he was gone.

She was alone.

And something was coming for her. She knew it. Drifting out of the mist behind her, and making a hideous clicking sound.

She ran.

She ran until her chest heaved with it. Until there were stitches in her side. The woman was screaming in her ear, but she never saw her.

She ran until Martin reared up before her, wielding a sword and wearing Cullen's face, terror and fury stamped on his features. “Forgive me,” he said, as the sword came down.

She dodged it, fade-stepping with fluidity, and sinking her knife deep into his belly, blood pouring over her hands.

She didn't remember where the knife had come from. It looked like one of Leliana's.

The templar fell, morphing from Cullen to Martin, to Cullen again, his armor stained deeply with blood, hands clutching at her own. “What could be worse than hundreds of unchecked apostates,” he whispered.

She was sobbing, twisting in guilt and fear at his hands, trying to pry his fingers off of her. He was grinding her bones, and the clicking behind her grew louder.

And then an eldrich voice spoke out of the shadows. Bring forth the sacrifice.

Run. The woman screamed. Run.

Tearing free from Martin's, or Cullen's, grasp, she did.

She ran, and then fell.

Everything around her glowed green and her hand burned like a brand, as she fell.

She landed on a cool floor, to realize she was in a prison cell. The prison cell, where Cassandra and Leliana had locked her after finding her at the Conclave.

The weren't here, but Maxwell was. He was crouching in the corner of the cell, playing a card game with Dorian, Sera and Varric. They laughed and joked, but no matter how Rosalind tried, she couldn't seem to move towards them, and couldn't get their attention. This comfortable levity, it seemed, was not for her.

There was another person in the cell now. A boy she'd never met, crouched before her in a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat, with lank grey hair hanging around his face.

“Who are you?” She asked.

“I'm here to help,” the boy replied.

“It's a party, Squirt, remember?” Maxwell called, turning from his game to look at her, laughing. “The more the merrier, right?”

The boy in the ridiculous hat reached out and ran cool fingers along Rosalind's cheek. “You wear a mask but it's your face, too. How do you do that?” His clear milky eyes met her own, and it seemed like he could see right through her. She felt trapped, like she couldn't look away.

The boy suddenly tilted his head to the side, as though listening to something else. “The Elder One is coming,” he said, almost to himself. Then he looked up, locking his milk-white eyes with hers again. “He's going to kill you. He's very angry. You took his mages.” Then, he vanished.

Maxwell smiled at her and came over. The other three still didn't seem to know she was there.

“How did you like my party, Squirt?” Maxwell asked. He knelt before her, taking her left hand in his and examining the anchor. “I told you that you were chosen by the Maker, didn't I? Chosen to serve mankind. My own sister. Amazing.”

“Max, don't.”

“Didn't I?” He asked again, his grin growing wider and he was nodding his head. “Who was right, Rosalind?”

“Max, this is serious.”

“Whose not being serious? I'm absolutely serious. You made a promise to me, remember?”

“No. Not yet. That happened later.” In spring. In a blizzard.

He shrugged. “So you'll make me a promise.”

“I—I can't.” She whispered, thinking of the dark future she'd seen.

He met her gaze then, and he looked profoundly sad. And when he spoke, his voice didn't sound like it belonged to him. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. “Andraste uses her Herald hard, Rosalind Trevelyan. But you can choose the manner of it. Not everyone gets that choice. When the times comes, remember who you are. Remember what you promised.”

She nodded, “I'll try,” she said.

And then, in Maxwell's insufferable voice, he added, “You could always try talking Him to death,” he laughed. “Maker knows you're good at that.”

By morning, the dream had faded as surely as the mists in the mountains was burned off by the bright light of day. She remembered the horror, but little else.


	8. Distraction

The horror lingered in her belly much of the following day and several days thereafter. She was unable to shake the uneasiness of that dream. But nothing really came of it.

The mages arrived and they sealed the breach handily. The heady feeling of all the power from Ferelden's mages thrumbing through Rosalind's body had terrified her at first. It was too much. This was too much for one person. Didn't they know? Didn't they know she was a mage? She should be feared. She shouldn't be given more power.

She shouldn't be the focus of so much attention.

But then Solas had stepped up beside her, gazing at her with steady green eyes full of confidence and determination, and he'd nodded. Bull was on the other side, his muscles tense, waiting should she need him, offering her a cocky smile.

They knew she was a mage. And they believed in her.

She channeled the power. It flowed through her, leaving her empty. Taking everything with it. She sagged to the ground amid cheers and whoops of joy. Evidently, whatever she'd done had worked.

She'd returned to Haven in a daze, heavily supported by Bull, finding herself unable to carry her own weight and unwilling to be actually, physically, carried into camp. She was drained. Exhausted. And she found herself staring in bemusement at the impromptu party happening around her.

“It's too early to celebrate,” she said, horror still twisting in her belly.

“Yeah,” Bull agreed, “maybe. But let them have this, Boss. There haven't been many reasons to celebrate recently.”

She nodded, “You're right, Bull.”

“You wanna join them?”

“No,” she said softly. “I just want to sleep.”

“You got it, Boss,” Bull said, and steered her failing body towards her tent, only to be brought up short by alarm bells.

She felt Bull stiffen beside her, and they looked at each other once. “The Elder One,” she whispered, without meaning to, and knew real terror when she saw Bull's own eye dilate in fear. He swore, releasing her and pulling the giant war hammer off his back.

Rosalind swayed on her feet for a moment, before pulling viciously at the Fade, drawing more mana into a body seared raw by the magic that had already been poured through it. But it stabilized her, kept her on her feet.

She ran to the front doors, finding them already barred, and Cullen standing before them giving clipped instructions.

The doors shook, twice. Cullen tensed, and drew his sword.

“What is it?” Rosalind asked, even though she feared she already knew.

Cullen shook his head mutely.

“No one knows. They're flying no banner,” Josephine sputtered.

“I can't come in unless you open,” a voice called from the other side of the doors.

Before thought, Rosalind was moving to the doors.

“Herald. Lady. What are you doing?” Cullen called, chasing after her.

She ignored him. Something in that voice had sounded familiar. Reminded her of a boy with lank hair and a ridiculous, wide-brimmed hat. She didn't know why. Before Cullen or anyone else could stop her, she flung the doors open.

And a boy in a ridiculous, wide-brimmed hat looked up at her as two templars fell at his feet. He sheathed his daggers, coming towards her, seemingly unperturbed by either Cullen or Bull who were both advancing on him, weapons drawn. He only had eyes for Rosalind. “I've come to warn you. People are trying to hurt you. You probably already knew that.”

Rosalind frowned. “Why do I know you? Have we met? Who are you?”

“I'm Cole. We met in the Fade. You probably don't remember. But the Elder One is coming for you. He's very angry because—”

“I took his mages,” Rosalind finished, parts of the dream coming back to her.

“He still has his templars,” Cole said. “But he wanted both.”

Cullen stopped. Checked himself. And was now staring at Cole with a strange expression. “Templars?” he asked.

“Yes. They sound funny. Their song is too loud. I don't like to listen. But they follow Samson. There.” And he pointed to the ridge above Haven.

Cullen swore at that, frantically scanning the ridge where the army collected. In a moment, he was spurred into action, and the camp broke into frantic activity. After that, it was all Rosalind could do to follow his clipped instructions, and keep as many people as she could alive.

She killed a lot of people that day. And saw a lot more die. And she learned, first hand, what the price of hesitation was.

It was one she couldn't afford to pay. And so she became less defensive, more aggressive, seeking to kill rather than to immobilize. Trying not to look too closely at her victims. Terrified that one of them might wear Martin's face.

Things seemed to be going well. But that was before the Dragon.

*

There were screams of fear and pain everywhere as fire rained down from above. Cullen stood in the Chantry doorway yelling, urging people to get inside, to relative safety.

Rosalind drew gasping breaths, casting frost on everyone before her to counter the dragon's fire as it cascaded over Haven. The barrier she'd cast as wide as she could had kept many of the people safe. Not all. But many. They ran, and she brought up the rear, her frost armor melting under the intense heat, and her white hair singeing at the edges.

“Run,” Cullen called. A hideous echo of her dream. Any minute now he was going to shout out warn them.

But you didn't warn them, did you? Rosalind asked herself, grimly casting the blizzard as widely as she could. You didn't warn them. You forgot. You forgot everything. And now he's here. And we're all going to die.

Hanging back, she ushered a group of raw recruits, local villagers, ahead of her, capturing them in her frosty circle of magic and trying to save them from the worst effects of the dragon's fire.

It was turning to make another pass. But she needed to be sure everyone was safe. This was her fault, after all. She'd forgotten. She'd forgotten everything. And she still couldn't remember it now. But she knew, she knew that this Elder One was the one the woman had insisted she warn them about so many weeks ago.

How could you forget something like that?

“Boss,” Iron Bull bellowed, racing towards her as she turned back to the village, heedless of the dragon barreling down on her again. “Come on.” He motioned to the Chantry, but she couldn't leave. What if someone was still here?

This was her fault. Her fault.

Bull growled, his face twisted with impatience as he unceremoniously scooped her up around the waist and hoisting her over his shoulder, before racing for the Chantry doors for all he was worth.

“No,” she cried, seeing a movement at the edges of her barrier. There was still someone out there. She didn't know who it was. She tried to squirm free, but that's when the dragon opened its mouth again, pouring molten fire down behind them, enveloping whoever it was in a wash of red fury.

Someone was screaming. It took her a moment to realize it was her.

Bull didn't so much as check his stride. He charged through the Chantry doors with her bouncing on his shoulder, held firm in one arm. Cullen slammed the doors closed, and only then did Bull set her down, looking apologetic. “Didn't want to lose you, Boss,” he said softly.

Rosalind nodded, mutely and swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat. “Thank you, Bull,” she said. And she meant it. If she'd had her way, she would have been lost to a fiery death too. Vivienne appeared at her elbow, handing her what must have been her sixth or seventh bottle of lyrium since this Maker-be-damned day had begun. Wordlessly, Rosalind gulped it down, feeling mana again pour through a body too worn out to hold it properly. It skirted around the edged of her frayed nerves, pricking at her mind and burning the back of her throat. But she was standing, and that was what mattered.

“What's our status,” she asked, turning to Cullen.

“That dragon stole back any time you might have gained us,” Cullen said, his hands still leaning on the firmly closed Chantry door, a profound weariness visible like a weight on his back. He took a breath and faced her. Faced all of them. “The only thing that slowed it down at all was the avalanche. If we could get to one of the trebuchets, get it firing, we might be able to cause one last slide.”

Rosalind shook her head. “No. . . we're overrun. To hit the enemy we—we'd bury Haven.” Even as she said it, she could see that Cullen already knew this.

“My lady,” he said gently, but there was no warmth in his gaze now, only despair, and so much pain, “we're dying. But we can choose the manner of it. Many don't get that choice.”

Rosalind gasped, in spite of herself. She glanced involuntarily at Cole, who crouched beside Chancellor Roderick, watching. “What did you say, Commander?”

“I said we can—”

“Choose the manner of it. Right. . .” She mused, the dream tickling her memory. “Remember,” she whispered, hearing the voice that was not Maxwell's voice resonate in her skull.

“My lady?” Cullen asked, but Rosalind just shook her head impatiently, waving him to silence as she frowned. Thinking. Magic was meant to serve mankind, and never to rule over them. But how?

“Yes, that might work,” Cole said softly, gazing at Roderick who didn't look long for this world. Rosalind learned later that the Chantry Brother had tried to stand against a templar, and taken a blow to the stomach. But right now, all she knew was that he was likely dying. “There is another way. Chancellor Roderick wants to tell you, before it's too late.”

This is it, Rosalind thought, as she and everyone else listened to the Chancellor and learned of the pilgrim's passage through the mountains that might lead them all to safety.

But they'll need a distraction, she thought, watching everyone hurry to enact Roderick's plan of escape. A plan of her own floated to the surface of her mind. And it filled her with terror. Andraste uses her Herald hard. It would be hard. Very hard. And it likely wouldn't work. But she would try. Had to try.

“Yes,” said Cole, his eyes meeting hers. “You could buy them time. He's coming to hurt you. He only wants you, not them. But he doesn't care how many others he hurts to get to you. I don't like him.”

Rosalind gave a mirthless laugh at this, “I suspect I won't like him either, Cole,” she said gently, kneeling down beside the boy. “But if he's coming for me, then I'll meet him.”

“But you carry him with you,” Cole said sadly.

“The Elder One?” Rosalind asked, confused.

Cole shook his head. “No. Pieces. Broken, and rough, and he doesn't think he's worth saving. But he's wrong. You could help. But you must be careful with the shards you hold, or they won't fit back together. ”

“Um. . .” Rosalind's brow furrowed, and she ran this conversation over in her head. Even on a second inspection, it still didn't make much sense. “I've never been much good at fixing things,” she offered. “My parents thought manual labor was unladylike, so I don't know much about it. Maybe I could give the. . uh. . . shards to someone else?”

“No.”

“Fine,” she said giving up. This wasn't the time to figure out what this strange boy from her dreams was talking about. “Then I guess I'll just be careful. Look, I need you to keep this a secret. Can you?”

“You'll hurt people. Hurt him. Shards ground to fine powder. Nothing left. Empty.” He protested, getting agitated.

“Okay, okay” she said gently, placing a hand on his arm. “But I think more people will be hurt if I don't try. Right?”

Cole frowned, then nodded, evidently satisfied. “Yes,” he said.

Roderick, who had apparently been following the conversation, to the extent that that was possible, seized Rosalind's forearm as she rose. “Lady. . . Herald. . . if you are meant for this. . . if the Inquisition is meant for this. . . then I pray for you.”

Rosalind stared into his face—already he looked more like a dead man than a living one—and nodded, not knowing what to say to the man who had only yesterday called her a murderer. “I—thank you, Chancellor,” she managed.

Then she turned, and scanned the hall.

Would they let her go? Bull had already dragged her to safety once today, and Cullen had left the Chantry doors open much longer than they should be to ensure she got inside. Varric, Dorian, Sera, Cassandra. She thought of each, and passed each over. No, they wouldn't let her go. They had become her friends. They would try to hold her back. Or go with her. They would try to keep her safe.

Safe.

There was no where that was safe anymore.

Blackwall. A friend, too, yes. And a man who'd stood between her and many a blow as she fumbled her way towards becoming a proficient battle mage over the past few weeks. But he was a man who understood a cause. Who understood sacrifice.

She slipped, unseen, through the milling crowd and up to Blackwall's side. “I need your solemn oath that you will do something for me,” she said, “and it won't be easy.”

Blackwall inclined his head immediately. “Of course, my lady. Anything.”

*

“Anything else, my lady. Please. Command me to go in your place,” Blackwall begged.

She wanted to. She dearly wanted to. She didn't want to die, and she was no warrior to risk life and limb guarding others. But Cole had told her the Elder One was coming for her. If she sent Blackwall, was there any guarantee that would distract Him? Or would He simply ignore the Warden, and burn the Chantry down with everyone inside?

Mutely, she shook her head.

“Or at your side. Or at least let me stay at these doors to safeguard your retreat.” He offered.

“No,” she replied, meeting his tortured eyes steadily, even though it hurt to see his weather-beaten face crumple in despair. “Someone must send the signal.”

“You have branded me a coward, my lady.”

She could have protested at this. She could have explained the logic behind her actions, and that the courageous act he craved was merely foolhardiness. But she didn't. “Yes,” was all she said. “I told you it wouldn't be easy.”

“This is the hardest thing you could ask of me.” He couldn't look her in the eye, and his face was drained of all blood.

“I know,” she answered softly.

“No, my lady. You do not,” he said. There was a world of sorrow in that voice that Rosalind couldn't begin to fathom.

“Will you do it?” she asked, fearful as the moments ticked by. She had been sure Blackwall would support her in this, and was wasting precious time in debate with him. If he didn't. If he broke his vow to her. . . her heart guttered low to think how many would die.

He stood a moment, staring over her head at some distant memory. Finally, still not meeting her gaze, he nodded. Once.

“Thank you, Blackwall,” she whispered. She wanted to beg for his forgiveness, but knew she didn't have that right. He looked grim, his eyes red-rimmed. But, having committed himself, he made no more protests.

So, while everyone else retreated to the back of the Chantry to gather supplies and follow Roderick's directions to this hidden entrance, Blackwall hefted his broad shoulders under the heavy bar, and heaved it off the giant, oak front doors.

And Rosalind slipped out.

He let her go, closing and barring the doors behind her, blocking her only avenue of retreat. Nowhere to run now. She cast a frost spell on the outside of them, coating the Chantry with as much ice as she could, before gulping another lyrium potion.

She turned and beheld the destruction the dragon had left in it's wake. Charred objects she didn't want to examine too closely littered the ground, the skeletal remains of buildings reaching in inky blackness towards the heavens, and ash floated lazily in the sky. There were no red templars to be seen nearby. Most had been killed, collateral damage of the dragon's pursuit of her own people. She heard the dragon's roar as he circled, looking for more pray, and she shrank into the shadows, heart pounding in her breast and hands shaking on her staff.

It took several moments for her to convince her trembling limbs to move. But finally she did. Slipping from shadow to shadow, slowly approaching the nearest trebuchet, heart beating so loudly in her own ears that she was sure the Elder One could hear it.

But she could do this. She had to. She'd seen the dark future that awaited them all of the Elder One wasn’t stopped.

She wouldn't allow that to happen.

Even if it killed her.

Slowly, and as quietly as she could, Rosalind aimed the weapon.

*

Cullen could feel his pulse beat painfully behind his eyes, and a dull ache running deep through his whole body. He wanted lyrium. He needed lyrium. He forced himself onwards, knowing the immeasurable strain he was placing on his own body, but not allowing himself to think of it. They had one chance. One change to get everyone out. And that itself was a slim one.

If it failed. . . well, if it failed the strain on his body would be the least of his problems. At any moment the dragon might turn its attention to the Chantry. At any moment they might all be burnt alive here, within these very wall.

I should be taking it Cullen thought in a moment of wild desperation as a mage ran past, gulping a bottle of lyrium. Cassandra came up beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

“What can I do?” she said steadily, her deference to his command reminding him of their deal, and of her judgment that he was still fit to give the orders.

He nodded, taking heart from this, “Take the lead,” he said, “I want to do one more sweep. Make sure we aren't leaving anything of use behind.”

Cassandra nodded squeezing his arm once, and turned to execute his command, calling on the Inquisition to follow her out.

They took what they could, Leliana's agents packing what a surprising efficiency. If Roderick was correct, this tunnel would spit them out on the exposed slopes above Haven. And Maker only knew how cold it would become before the night was out. If they survived this wild flight, it was likely many of them would die of exposure on the hillside.

With that in mind he packed anything and everything they could used to make tents, lean-to's and whatever seemed likely to serve as blankets.

There was a bear pelt in the corner of Josephine's office that Cullen gratefully scooped up, remembering the letter Rosalind had sent with it from Haven. Something about 'pain in the ass deranged bears.' It occurred to him he hadn't seen her yet in the shuffle.

He glanced around, eyebrows raising, asking a few people as the panicked crowd filed past him, headed for the exit. Most hadn't seen her since he'd shut the doors. But some recalled seeing her with Blackwall.

He found Blackwall looking morose by the Chantry's front doors. “Have you seen Lady Trevelyan?” he asked.

“Yes,” Blackwall said gruffly. “She said to tell you, if I saw you, to get everyone out. She said to tell you that she and I would bring up the rear.” It sounded like a rehearsed statement. Like something he was reciting from memory.

“All right,” Cullen said, but something in Blackwall's voice made him pause. “Are you sure, Blackwall?”

“Yes, that's what she said. And,” his misery deepened, “I swore to it. I'll bring up the rear.”

Cullen nodded. There was still something puzzling him here, but he didn't have time to worry about it. He didn't really have time for anything. He turned, taking a deep breath against the spasm of pain that wracked his over-tired body, and followed the people of the Inquisition out.

Leaving Blackwall's disconcerting misery behind.

*

*

They'd escaped. Unbelievably, they had escaped. “And there is no pursuit?” Cullen asked, not daring to hope.

“None that my agents can see,” Leliana replied. “It's quite odd, really. It appears all attention remained focused on the camp, even as we fled.”

It was more than odd. It was impossible. He had been sure that he—that all of them—would meet their end in Haven. Or on the mountainside as they straggled to freedom. He breathed a sigh of relief. Beside him, Cassandra whispered a prayer.

Josephine ran up, clip board in hand. “She isn't here,” she cried.

“Who?” Cassandra asked.

“The lady Herald. She was in the Chantry before we left. I know. I cataloged everyone present so. . . so we would know who had been lost.” Josephine bowed her head briefly, as Leliana patted her arm. She straightened, in a moment, and continued. “I've cataloged everyone again. All of us made it out of the Chantry except Lady Trevelyan. She is not here.” Cullen felt his mouth go dry.

“Are you sure?” Cassandra asked.

Josephine nodded, miserably. “Yes.”

Cullen scanned the camp in desperation, though the idea of his finding Rosalind when Josephine's meticulous search had not was, admittedly ridiculous. Still, he searched the people present. Rosalind wasn't among them.

But Blackwall was. Cullen could see him on the edge of camp, crouched down over something in the snow. “Wait here,” he said, striding off towards the warden.

As he approached, Blackwall stood up and hastily backed away a moment before the thing, the beacon, launched itself into the sky and burst in a purple plume of fire with a loud crack.

Many people in camp turned, startled. One screamed.

What is he doing? Cullen thought, marching over to Blackwall, his fatigue and the pain of lyrium withdrawal fraying nerves that were already strung too tight. Alerting the enemy to our presence? The warden watched him approach, a look a weary resignation on his face.

“What was that? And where is lady Trevelyan?” Cullen snapped.

Blackwall hung his head in anguish, and pointed over the mountain, towards Haven. “There.” He said.

Cullen turned, and felt a black well of despair open beneath his feet as the mountainside came down, burying Haven beneath it.

Beside him, Blackwall groaned softly like a wounded animal.

*


	9. Not Beyond Repair

He found her, eventually. Too much to hope that she could aim a giant weapon without Him noticing. But she held his templars off grimly with a vicious electrical storm couched inside a raging blizzard. There was no need to hold back now, no one she loved that she could hurt. She gave free reign to the fierce vengeful song that sang through her veins, as long as the lyrium held out. It wasn't long enough.

She had the trebuchet aimed. But there had been no signal yet. She couldn't, yet, safely fire.

He broke through her electrical storm, and shrugged off the frost bolt she sent His way easily. His hand sliced through her barrier, seizing her left wrist and lifting her off of her feet.

And then He spoke to her.

The voice. That eldrich voice that she often imagined she could hear on the edge of her dreams. Now it filled her mind, and bounced around her rib cage.

It set her teeth on edge and made her skin crawl.

The man—if He could be called a man, this 'Elder One'—to whom this voice belonged was just as eldrich as the voice itself. Just as uncanny. Just as unsettling.

But she refused to shy away from Him. Refused to show Him how terrified she was. There was no where to run this time, anyway. And warning the people wouldn't keep them safe. The only way, the only chance anyone had to be safe was to keep this 'Elder One' talking.

Every moment of His uncanny voice that she endured without screaming in fear and pain was another moment she bought for them. Another moment they had to get to safety. So, she would do what she was good at. Meet Him head on. And talk Him to death.

And she did. Goading Him, and prodding Him, keeping Him talking, until she had infuriated Him. He tossed her aside, in contempt, as though she were a used dish rag.

She struck the side of the trebuchet, hard, landing on her right ankle at an unholy angle, certain she heard something break. Her staff dislodged from her back, rolling away.

She lay, dazed and winded for a moment, staring up into the sky. It was then that she saw Blackwall's signal. A purple firework exploding miles away, behind Corypheus's head. She climbed to her feet, willfully ignoring the stabbing pain in her right ankle, and took a deep breath.

“So, you're an arrogant fool who likes to talk to much,” Rosalind shouted, clinging to anger and trying in vain to banish the claws of fear she felt at what she was about to do next. “Good to know.”

And with that, she launched the trebuchet. Corypheus's head turned slowly, following the stone's trajectory. Rosalind's didn't. She didn't need to see whether her plan was successful or not.

One chance she hissed to herself, leaping off the trebuchet and fade-stepping out of Corypheus's reach. If the trebuchet didn't work and the avalanche didn't come down, she was dead. If she didn't move and find some place to shelter from the oncoming storm, she was dead. She ran, frantically scanning the ground in front of her for a safe place to hide.

But nowhere was safe.

Corypheus howled in fury behind her, and Rosalind ran blindly. Dimly, she heard the roar of the mountainside coming down. Okay, so the avalanche plan worked. Good. I won't die at the hands of the Elder One and His dragon. That's nice. I expect dying in an avalanche will be less bloody. If they ever unearth my corpse, it will probably be more in tact. Far less embarrassing than having my entrails dragged all over Haven. She thought.

There was an obstacle in her path. A box or a crate or something. With an agility she didn't know she possessed, she vaulted over it, only to come crashing down on the other side onto a wooden platform erected over a sink-hole in the ground. It gave way. She fell.

And landed, hard.

And knew no more.

*

“How could. . . why would. . . you left her there?” Cullen finally managed to say, as he watched the avalanche settle over Haven. “Why?” The word was torn from a throat that felt too raw for the emotions welling up inside it.

Blackwall closed his eyes in abject misery. “Because I promised to.”

“What?. . . Who did you make this promise to?” Cullen had a hand on his sword faster than thought, drawing it out of its sheath. Was Blackwall a traitor? In league with the enemy?

Blackwall neither unsheathed his own sword nor raised his shield to defend himself. Instead he gave a mirthless laugh. “Rosalind Trevelyan herself,” he whispered.

Cullen's sword dropped from his nerveless hands. “What?” he said again.

Blackwall cleared his throat, and explained. “I promised the Herald that I would help her stay behind, that I would tell anyone who asked that she and I would bring up the rear, and that I would send a signal once we were safely away from camp. So she'd know it was safe to trigger the avalanche.”

“Safe? How could it be safe? She was still there!” Cullen roared, his eyes locked in horror at the scene before him. Everything felt cold. So cold. A bleak chill settling over his heart. With an effort, he turned his gaze to Blackwall. “Why?”

“The Lady said that this Elder One was coming for her. She wanted to serve as a diversion, to ensure we all got out safely. It was very noble of her. And very brave.” The man's voice trembled as he spoke, fresh tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes. “She sacrificed herself to safeguard our retreat.” Those words struck Cullen like a punch. Sacrificed. He heard his own breath hiss through his teeth in pain.

But Blackwall continued. “I tried to talk her out of it. I tried to convince her to let me go instead. I tried. But she demanded that I give her my word. I did,” he said softly, wiping these fresh tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. “And I couldn't break it. I wish more than you can know that she hadn't asked it of me. But she did. I'm sorry.”

Before he could stop himself, Cullen imagined Rosalind's body, buried and broken somewhere beneath the snow, and a fresh stab of pain hit him in the chest, so sharp that he doubled over for a moment, bracing his hands on his knees. Was she there now? Suffocating? Dying? Alone, and frozen. He shook his head, trying to shake this vision free. They didn't know she was dead. Maybe she'd surprise them all. Find a way.

“The Seeker needs to know. And the others. Maker's breath,” Cullen pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and bit his lip trying to hold in a wild cry he felt building in a chest that was too small and fragile to hold this pain. But he was good at dealing with pain. Though his legs trembled beneath him, not a word escaped his lips.

“I need your help,” he said roughly after several moments, allowing his hands to fall away from his face, dropping loosely by his side. “We need to organize a search party. Comb the mountainside. If there's a chance. . . “ he couldn't finish that sentence.

“It would be my honor, Commander,” Blackwall said, but Cullen could read the other man's expression easily. The bleakness behind those damp eyes spoke of no hope. Blackwall, it seemed, thought a search party was fruitless. Still, he clasped his fist over his heart in salute, and headed back to camp to carry out Cullen's request.

After a moment, Cullen bent to retrieve his sword. He straightened slowly, sheathing it. Then, he turned, allowing this new heartache to settle among the myriad other pains he bore, and followed Blackwall back to camp.

*

“It isn't over yet,” Maxwell said. He was a 12 year old boy this time, poking her in the ribs. This was probably his most annoying age. “Come on! Get up, Squirt. You'll sleep through everything.”

She tried to squirm out of his reach. Tried to turn over, and was rewarded with a hideous stabbing pain. Gasping in surprise, she was flung out of her dream, and opened her eyes. At least she thought she had opened her eyes. But things seemed as black now as they had when her eyes were closed.

Okay. So either I've been blinded somehow, or it's really dark in here. Or both. It could be two things. She sighed

Experimentally, she lifted her left hand and touched her own face, running her fingers over her eyebrows. A flash of green appeared in front of her face. The anchor she remembered, as her fingertips encountered something wet, cold and sticky on her forehead.

Okay. So not blinded. But possibly bleeding. And probably you've cracked a rib or two

She tried to roll over onto her side again, and felt another sharp, stabbing pain. Yes, probably cracked a rib.

Gingerly, she sat up, mentally scanning her body for any other injuries. Her right ankle was throbbing badly, and she dimly remembered being tossed against a trebuchet. Sprained, or broken, probably. Her right arm was also in quite a lot of pain, now that she thought about it, and was difficult to move. Dislocated shoulder, maybe? She felt around her head and did find a gash in her forehead. It seemed to be scabbed over now, but had apparently oozed blood all down the left side of her face. And she realized she was cold. Very cold.

Maxwell was right. She had to get up. She needed to moving if she didn't want to die of hypothermia. She rummaged in her pockets with her left hand, and found broken shards of glass. It appeared, after a thorough search, that all of her health potions had smashed in her fall. But she did come up with one lyrium draught. “Better than nothing,” she said softly, uncorking the bottle with her teeth and downing it in one gulp. She gasped in pain as mana flooded into the broken vessel that was currently her body, gritting her teeth as it snaked along her nerve endings, like salt in an open wound.

But after a moment the sensation passed. Grimly, Rosalind conjured a small veilfire and staggered to her feet. She couldn't help the groan of pain that escaped her lips as she put weight on her right foot for the first time. But the foot held. And she found that, as long as she moved gingerly, she could walk, sort of.

What she couldn't find, was her staff. Or her cloak. She had no idea what had happened to either.

After casting around for a few moments, she realized there was really only one route open to her. So she took it.

She shuffled along the ancient catacombs, wondering dimly if she would ever get out. I suppose the good thing is that, if I die down here, it save the expense of burying me, she thought, her mouth twisted in a humourless smile.

*

The catacombs were a maze. There were so many false turns, and dead ends, that Rosalind wanted to scream in frustration. And there were demons. Too many demons. And she had no weapon to defend herself with. She had no choice but to channel magic inefficiently directly through her fingers. It hurt. And long before she found her way out, she'd used up all of the mana the lyrium potion had given her. Her body, taxed well past its limit, was unable to draw any more from the Fade.

She was so tired. And so hungry. She couldn't remember the last thing she'd had to drink or eat that wasn't lyrium. The veilfire cast everything in a sickly glow, and the weight of the rock above her was unsettling. She wanted out. Out!

And she was cold. Very cold.

She sighed with relief upon seeing actual sky ahead. Hastily she stumbled towards it, her spirits lifting. No more demons she thought, which was nice, since there was no more mana either. She limped out of the catacombs and fell into knee-deep snow, a vicious wind tearing through her robes. She'd hoped that things would be better once she got out of those bloody tunnels.

They weren't.

It was colder. The snow was deeper. Her ankle hurt more and her progress was reduced to a shuffle. Clenching her jaw against the ache, and the teeth-chattering chill, she pressed on. There was a dim glow on the horizon and if she was lucky—if she was very lucky—it was a fire.

Not needing the veilfire anymore, she wrapped her arms around herself, cradling the injured right one against the left, hugging both tightly against her aching ribs, and staggered towards the soft glow.

She didn't know how long she'd walked. The pain in her ankle seemed to have dulled a bit and she wasn't sure if she was getting used to it, or if her extremities were slowly freezing. She wished her hair was long again. The long, flowing white hair she'd had as a circle mage. It would keep the back of her neck and her ears warm. Both were stinging with cold. But she didn't have that hair. She'd hacked it off with a dagger after the circles had fallen. It was always getting tangled, falling in her eyes, and was too convenient a hand-hold for a templar to grab. She'd hacked it off without a second thought.

She missed it now.

Mercifully, at some point the wind stopped howling. But the temperature dropped. Rosalind raised her eyes and felt her heart gutter in despair at how far she still had to go before she reached the elusive red glow on the horizon. She'd exited the caves in the evening. It was most definitely night now. How long had she been walking since she left the catacombs? Two hours? More? And was it three hours in those hellish mazes, or four?

For that matter, how long had she lain on the floor, unconscious?

She didn't know. It could have been a few minutes, or the better part of a day. Not that it mattered. She hadn't told Blackwall to wait for her. Frankly, her plan hadn't extended much beyond burying Haven under a mountain of snow.

She was shivering violently now. The shivers wracked her body so hard that every step was a trial. Twice she fell, measuring her length in the snow. The first time she'd flung her arms out to catch herself, screaming in agony as her right arm struck the ground. She'd forgotten about that injury.

The second time, her arms were so stiffly locked around her own body that she couldn't unwrap them in time, couldn't move fast enough to catch herself. She crashed, face first, into a deep snow drift. Gingerly, she turned over onto her back and stared at the stars, as snow melted on her forehead, trickling along the sticky, bloody mess that was caked on her face. It itched.

Wearily, she struggled to her feet again. The shivering seemed to have stopped, but was replaced with a curious numbness. A heaviness in her body. A sluggishness in her mind. She thought she should probably be concerned with that. But she wasn't. It was so hard to care about anything. All she wanted to do was sleep. Just for a little while. But she was aware enough to know that that was a mistake. She just couldn't remember why.

At long last she struggled to the top of a ridge and could see the soft red glow below. It was a ring of fires. A camp.

Still far away. Too far away. She moved her right leg, and the ankle joint just gave out on her. Unable to support her weight anymore. She was going to fall. Again. And she knew she didn't have the strength to lift herself back up. She felt sorry about it, in a distant sort of way. But at least now maybe she could sleep.

Why had she been fighting sleep anyway? She didn't know.

As the ground tilted up towards her, she heard a voice cry out “It's her,” and saw a flash of red in her peripheral vision.

But she had no time to wonder at that. The snow wasn't so deep here. Here on the windswept ridge, there was little more than a dusting of it. As a result, there was nothing to cushion the blow of her fall. From her cheek to her knees, she hit the ground with a bone-jarring impact. It sent a jolt of agony through her bruised ribs, and re-opened the gash on her forehead, causing her to whimper and close her eyes tight as fresh, hot blood ran down her face.

A moment later, strong gentle hands were carefully lifting her head, and turning her over. She was cradled to a broad chest and her sticky, bloody hair was pushed back from her brow. “Rosalind? Rosalind? Can you hear me? Are you all right?” The voice was tight with fear.

That wasn't right, she thought dimly. I didn't want him to be afraid of me. But of course he is. How could he not be? I'm a mage.

Struggling, she opened her eyes. Cullen's face swam in her blurry vision. It was tightly drawn, deep furrows of worry etching themselves into his skin. He wrapped something deliciously warm and red around her, with feathers that softly brushed her icy cheeks. They rubbed against her face, getting caught and sticking in her own blood. “I'll ruin another of your garments,” she said stupidly, her mind too frozen to come up with anything else.

Though his eyes lost none of their terror, the corners of his mouth quirked. “Can you walk?” he asked softly, some of the tightness draining from his voice. “Are you hurt?”

“Yes,” she replied, not sure which question she was answering, but figuring that the answer probably applied to both.

He studied her for a moment, before gingerly lifting her in his arms. “You're safe now,” he whispered. But she knew it was a lie. She wasn't safe. No one was safe. And they wouldn't be safe, as long as the Elder One was out there.

But it was a sweet lie, and she wanted to believe it.

“Okay,” she replied, allowing herself to accept the lie, to sink into it. Just for a moment. Just for a little while. Safe.

He rose carefully, cradling her in his arms, and turned back to camp. There were others, she realized dimly. Voices over her head. Cullen barking orders. People asking questions. She ignored them. It didn't matter right now. There was nothing more she could do, even if she wanted to. For now, the lie of safety was enough.

Somewhere on the journey to camp, exhaustion won out over consciousness. Rosalind slipped into the Fade, with Cullen's heartbeat echoing beneath her ear.

*

She'd been taken from him the moment he arrived in camp. Josephine had spurred them all into a ruthless efficiency. And now Rosalind was tucked up in bed, with Dorian beside her casting a gentle fire spell to warm the make-shift tent she lay in, while Solas examined the anchor and Adan administered the last of their stock of healing potions and poultices. Varric had built up a roaring fire and sent Bull and Sera to gather as much snow as they could, melting it into water over the flames. Vivienne was in another part of the camp, giving clipped orders and organizing search parties to scour the surrounding hills for the elfroot needed to make more potions, if need be. Blackwall hovered on the edge of things, wanting to help, but unsure of his welcome.

Cassandra had created a watch rotation to guard against any possible pursuit, though it seemed unlikely at this point. She'd taken one look at Cullen—once Bull had swept Rosalind out of his arms—and advised him firmly to lie down.

She was right. There was nothing more Cullen to do. And he had pushed his lyrium-starved body well beyond it's endurance before organizing the search to find the Herald. He was swaying on his feet, now, the pain behind his eyes enough to make his stomach turn. He should rest.

But he didn't. He drifted to the edge of Rosalind's tent instead, his arms feeling strangely empty. He could just see inside. Could just see Adan wiping a damp cloth across her forehead, removing hours of grime and blood. She drifted in and out of consciousness, muttering something urgently, while Solas stroked her cheek and murmured soothing words in her ear. Cullen couldn't hear either of them from where he hovered. And he knew he would be just be in the way if he got closer.

The painful, panicky tightness in his chest was gone. Replaced with this unbearable, cavernous ache. Like the first gasp of air, after holding one's breath for far too long. It hurt to see her, here. Hurt to watch the colour rush back into her cheeks, knowing it had almost been lost forever. Hurt to know how close he had come—they all had come—to losing her. He didn't know why it should hurt. This should be a moment of joy. And it was. But the joy itself was painful. A soft, unfathomably deep ache in his chest.

She survived. She was safe. It was all he could think of.

The boy—Cole—drifted up beside Cullen, head cocked towards the tent. “Blood pounding, heart racing. Fear clawing at the walls of my chest. Run. Run.”

“Cole, is it?” Cullen asked, trying to be kind to the odd boy, despite his raw nerves.“what are you talking about?”

“She wanted to be brave. To honor a promise she made a long time ago. You're my courageous, strong and amazing sister. Promise me. She wanted to be brave. But she doesn't know how. I'm a mage. I'm a monster. The sound of snow, giving way. Avalanche. I won't die at the hands of the Elder One and his dragon. That's nice. Crashing. Falling. Pain.”

Cole's head turning unerringly towards Cullen, though he didn't meet his gaze. He was staring at Cullen's chest “You're hurt.”

“What?” Cullen looked at his chest and beheld his blood-stained cloak. Bull had brought it back to him once they'd wrapped Rosalind in blankets and, having nothing else, he'd put it back on against the chill. “No, it's not mine,” he replied, touching the place where Rosalind's blood darkened the front of it, an almost black stain over his heart. “It's hers.”

“Yes, I know. You gave it to her. It's broken, but it will fit back together. I tried to warn her. She doesn't know. I tried to explain. But there were so many hurting. She doesn't understand. Not yet. She didn't mean to hurt you.”

Cullen stiffened at those words, caught on the edge of misunderstanding and terribly afraid that he did understand. “I know she didn't,” he finally replied, his voice rough to his own ears.

The boy drifted closer as though curious to see what was happening in the tent beyond. But Cullen know that the last thing Dorian, Solas and Adan needed was another person in the way. He reached out his hand to catch the boy's elbow, when Cole began speaking again.

“She is magnificent. Don't be afraid of her. Like walking on thin ice over a raging river. Don't be afraid. Maker, don't let her be afraid of me. I'm not that man anymore. Unworthy. Unclean. Broken. But she needs me. Go to her. Less than a foot away. Breath ghosting on my cheek. Hair tickling my forehead. Kiss her.” Cole turned towards him then.

Cullen gasped, meeting Cole's glassy eyes under the moonlight as the boy recited his own most private thoughts back to him. His hand dropped away from Cole, as though he'd been stung. “What are you?” he asked, backing away, his skin prickling hotly.

But Cole didn't answer. “She didn't know that it wasn't her alone she risked. She didn't know, when she left, that she took your heart with her. That you passed it into her keeping. Piece by broken piece. Every unwilling chuckle drawn from rusty vocal chords. Every smirk. Every fearless act. Every unexpected kindness. ” He looked mournful, eyes flickering back to the tent. “Why didn't you tell her?” he asked.

Cullen opened and shut his mouth, stunned beyond words. Was that what this was? This deep ache in his chest? Had he fallen in love with Rosalind Trevelyan? 

His legs gave out beneath him and he crashed to his knees in the snow. 

“Maker,” he said hoarsely, tears stinging his eyes.

“Oh, I see,” Cole whispered. “You didn't know, either.”

*


	10. Chosen in Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is as far as I've gotten in terms of a coherent story. I have other scenes written, but the rest of the story is coming together slowly. Figured I'd post this much and see if people are interested in more!

*

 

The sharp words hovered on the edge of Rosalind's consciousness. She tried to push them back. She was so warm. And so heavy. The healing potions Adan had administered had done their work, leaving her feeling whole, and languid. And she was safe. Safe. Even now, teetering on the edge of the fade, she knew the word was a lie. But she could believe it now. If she just laid still. That wasn't her problem. Let others sort it out. The Breach was closed. She'd done her part.

And if she moved, if she sat up, she would shatter the illusion and have to face the reality. They weren't safe. None of them were. It was nothing short of a miracle that she had survived at all. And if they didn't move, quickly, no one would survive. It was only a matter of time. She attempted to bury herself deeper in the deliciously warm blankets.

The sharp words pricked at her consciousness again. Cullen, Leliana, Josephine and Cassandra. Bickering like children. With a groan of stiffness, Rosalind raised her head, and gazed in bewilderment at the scene a few feet away.

“Lie still,” someone—Mother Giselle—said placing a hand on Rosalind's shoulder. “You need your rest.”

“No,” Rosalind replied, the soft illusion of safety well and truly broken now. “We need to move. But it appears those four would rather argue about who is in charge instead of just getting on with it. We need to make a plan, strike camp, and get the hell out of here. And the sooner, the better. The Elder One is still out there.”

“They know,” Mother Giselle replied, as Rosalind turned to face her. “But the enemy could not follow. You gave us time, with the avalanche. And with time to doubt, they turn to blame. Infighting may threaten our survival as much as this Corypheus.”

“Do we know where he is? Do we know he cannot follow?” He has a fucking dragon, after all.

Mother Giselle simply shook her head. “We are not sure where we are. But there have been no signs of pursuit yet.”

“So. . . what? We'll just wait for a sign of pursuit and then make a plan? No. We need to move. Now.”

“They know that,” Mother Giselle replied gently. “The question is, where?”

“Well, fighting over whose in charge isn't going to answer that question,” Rosalind grumbled, running her hands through her hair.

“No, but they are afraid to face the situation before them. Our leaders struggle because of what we witnessed. We saw our defender stand, and fall. And then we saw her return.”

Rosalind arched an eyebrow, certain that Mother Giselle was joking. But the woman's eyes held that same calm, infuriating fire of faith that Maxwell's always had. “I didn't rise from the dead,” she snapped.

“Of course not. The dead cannot return from across the veil. But the people know what they saw. Or perhaps what they needed to see. The more our enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear, and the more our trials seem ordained. Can we truly claim to know that the heavens are not with us?”

Rosalind closed her eyes against this fiery faith. What she wanted to say was that a Maker who would curse her with magic, who would make her a monster, isolating her from friends, family and love, wasn't a Maker whose guidance she was particularly interested in. What she wanted to say was that such a divine being seemed like a cruel sociopath, not a bringer of miracles. But she didn't. She still remembered the comfort Maxwell's reflected belief had brought her. And even though she could never bring herself to share his faith, she couldn't crush it either. She'd made a promise, after all. To serve mankind. And Maxwell's belief in the Maker was his anchor, just as her belief in him had been hers.

Still, she couldn't lie either.

“I'm sorry, Mother Giselle, but whatever you say, I felt no divine help at the Conclave, or at Haven.” So saying, she hefted herself to her feet, and began to make her way to the Inquisition's four leaders. She didn't know what help she could offer, but they needed to understand that this was no time to bicker. They needed to move.

No one was safe.

Maybe they could hide in the Fallow Mire. It was a shit hole, and no mistake, but who would be mad enough to follow them there? And the fog that hung over it might conceal them from the dragon.

Or maybe on the storm coast? There were enough caves there to conceal all of them, and the weather was so aweful it might dissuade the Elder One for a while.

It didn’t matter where. They just needed to move.

She reached the edge of her tent, these thoughts spinning in her mind, when a wave of exhaustion overtook her. She steadied herself against a tent post, taking a few deep breaths. She knew Mother Giselle was right. She needed rest. But there wasn’t time. No one was safe!

Mother Giselle's deep rich voice rang out behind her, startling her out of her thoughts. Sure and steady, the woman sang a hymn. An old hymn. One of despair and hope. And the people of the Inquisition lifted their heads.

Though it was a Chantry mother singing, it was Rosalind the people beheld. Mother Giselle stayed behind her, half-hidden in the shadows of the tent, allowing Rosalind to be the uncomfortable singular focus of everyone's gaze.

And then Leliana picked up the thread of the song. Her high, clear soprano jumping the octave above Mother Giselle's rich contralto. Then others, many others, joined in, turning like a tide, washing towards Rosalind. It swept through the camp, as bickering ceased, head's turned, voices lifted, and people drifted towards her on the waves of melody.

She saw the moment the tide hit Cullen. As men and women moved past him, he, too, became caught in this ethereal net Mother Giselle was weaving, with Rosalind at the center. He met her gaze across the crowd, and his eyes burned with a frightening intensity. Then he closed them, a look a fierce hope suffusing his features, and lifted his own voice in song.

His transformation hurt her more than she'd expected. She thought Cullen knew who she was. What she was. She'd hoped he wouldn't give into this nonsense.

But he was far from alone. The tide of belief easily lifted Cassandra as well. And Josephine. Blackwall too, his face solemn as though this song were a prayer itself. As though he were making a pledge. Helpless, Rosalind stood caught in this web, the focus of their fervent attention.

“No,” she whispered. But her voice was lost now, small and unimportant beneath the weight of their collective faith. A faith so deep, so desperate and so strong that her own weak protests could not hold back this tide. The wave of people reached her feet, kneeling before her, gazing up in naked worship. But they weren't seeing her anymore. They were seeing someone else. Something else. Something she knew she could never be.

She wanted to run.

She thought she might be sick.

The last notes of the song ended, and the crowd slowly rose, smiling and calm. Transformed. As though this act of worship had lanced a festering wound, leaving them clean. Purified.

Rosalind's heart beat out a panicked staccato against the walls of her chest. This couldn't happen. This was too much. Didn't Mother Giselle realize what she was? A mage. A weapon. A monster. And the woman sought to hand her even more power? It was already too much for one person to wield. She was already too dangerous.

She trembled.

Mother Giselle stepped up serenely beside her, oblivious to her own state of terror. “Faith may have yet to find you,” she said, “but it has already found them.” And then she smiled softly, and moved off, intent on her own business. Rosalind watched her go, rooted to the spot in horror.

She caught the motion of someone coming towards her, breaking easily through the receding tide of people milling about, voices bubbling now with good cheer. Solas.

“A word,” he said shortly, before continuing past her and away from the illuminated circle of camp.

Numbly, Rosalind stumbled after him, not knowing what else to do.

*


	11. Song of Skyhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got some more revised. I'm still not happy with the shape of the next few chapters and am fiddling with them. And life is very much in the way now. I am sorry for the slow progression, but I will keep plodding along!

Skyhold was magnificent. Rosalind had to admit that. Oh, it was a falling down wreck compared to any of the places she’d ever lived before the circles had fallen, but it was magnificent. 

It was also. . . strange. “Solas, there’s something,” Rosalind frowned in frusteration, standing just inside the courtyard. “Are you sure this place is unoccupied? There’s something. . .” she trailed off again, drumming her fingers against her thigh. “Can you feel it?” 

Solas laughed. “Yes of course I can feel it, Herald. The question is, can you?”

“I. . . almost. It’s as though . . . is someone here?’

Solas’s smile widened, looking for all the world like a proud tutor. “You are unexpected, my Lady. Come with me.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as though they were at court and guided her to a staircase and up onto the battlements. Unlike when Cullen had taken her arm only a few weeks ago, Solas showed no awkward self-consciousness, acting as though it were the most natural thing in the world. That in itself struck her as strange. Then again, a number of things about Solas struck her as strange. She wondered, not for the first time, how he knew Skyhold existed, and how he seemed to so easily find his way around it. She filed that thought away for future consideration. 

From atop the battlements, she could see across the Frostbacks and watch the bedraggled, exhausted members of the inquisition straggling up the indistinct path and across the threshold of Skyhold, most with their mouths hanging open. After days of slogging through the snow, and nights of misery inadequately sheltered against the howling wind, this fortress at the top of the world was a welcome wonder to behold.

Solas took her hand from his arm and laid it on the bare stone of the battlements, pressing her palm flat. She instantly felt a pulse surge against her skin, and snake up the inside of her arm. Soft, indistinct, and yet definitely there. Regular and methodical, the stone pulsed out a warm tempo. “Do you feel it, Andraste’s Herald?” he whispered, green eyes searching her face, brow furrowed in concentration.

“I can feel . . . “she frowned in frustration, unable to explain properly. Again her fingers drummed out a rythmn, this time tapping it against the stone of the battlements themselves. “It’s . . . it’s like music.”

“The stone singing to you?” Solas suggested.

Despite herself, she grinned. “Yes, that’s it exactly. Makes me want to walk barefoot just to feel it more clearly.” She laughed. “How . . . how is it doing that?”

“It is an ancient magic, my lady. A magic my people once possessed, now long lost. The stones themselves are saturated in magic. This place will not easily fall.”

The song of magic thrummed relentlessly against her fingertips. It was faint, but she could feel it. She could almost hear it. And, for the first time since Alexius’s spell had gone awry and flung her a year into the future, she felt a measure of safety. This place will not easily fall.

“How did you know this was here?” Rosalind asked, watching the inquisition struggle up to the entrance.

“I found it in my dreams,” Solas replied, with a shrug.

Rosalind frowned. The Fade rarely showed things faithfully, in her experience. Yet Solas moved through Skyhold with supreme confidence. “But you found it for us with ease, Solas. You must have been here before. I mean here, in our world. Not just in the Fade. But actually travelling here, along these paths. How else could you have led us here so effortlessly?”

“No, my lady. You led us here. At least, that is what the people believe.” Solas gave a mischievous grin, and Rosalind had the impression he was evading her questions. Again. She never could get a straight answer out of him. 

“That misconception is easily remedied,” she said. 

“I have no need for recognition, Inquisitor. In fact, I would prefer it if the misconception remained as it is. You are already beloved by the people whereas I. . . let us just say the Inquisition will be better served believing that you led us here.”

Rosalind shook her head. “No one will believe that, Solas. I’m hardly a mountaineer, and I cannot claim, as you did, to have found it in a dream. I haven’t the skills to dream true in the Fade as you do.”

“No, my lady?” Solas gave her face a long, searching look. “Are you so sure you lack this skill? The people claim Andraste speaks to you in the Fade, do they not?”

For a moment, Rosalind paused, remembering Maxwell speaking in her dreams in a voice that was not his own. ‘Andraste uses her chosen hard,’ he’d said, ‘but you can choose the manner of it.’ She shook her head, as though trying to shake free of those thoughts. Max was in her dreams because she missed him. And as for the Andraste stuff, well, with everyone calling her the Herald, it was bound to sneak into her dreams eventually, right?

“No,” she responded decisively to Solas. “It’s a rare talent. Truly, Solas, what you have done for us here is wonderful. You’ve saved us. People should know.”

Again, the elf shook his head. “After the events at Haven, and Mother Giselle’s impeccable timing, you may well be surprised what the people will believe, my lady, and what they won’t. You may speak my name all you like, but the people will hold you to be their saviour. And, truly, I am not saddened by that. But if you need a story to tell them to support your claim that you led us here, why not try divine intervention?” He arched an eyebrow and gave a soft chuckle.

“Are you asking me to claim that I was led to Skyhold by a god?” Rosalind asked, arching an eyebrow. “You think rather highly of yourself, don’t you?”

Solas shrugged again, though his smile widened in delight. “I suppose I enjoy the role, from time to time.”

“Not quite as modest as you pretend to be, are you?” Rosalind quipped.

“Do not mistake my lack of interest in the limelight for modesty, Herald of Andraste. And now, if I’m not much mistaken, your advisors wish to speak with you,” here he gestured lazily with one slender finger at the figures of Cassandra, Leliana and Cullen in the courtyard below, “and I have to secure some quarters for myself before all the good spots are taken. My lady,” and with a short bow, Solas swept away, leaving Rosalind alone on the battlements.

Rosalind watched him go, her fingers still tapping out the song the stone sang to her, and wondered—not for the first time—who he was and where he came from. He wasn’t like any elf she had ever known.

She saw Cassandra spotting her, gesturing to the others, and waving to get her attention. With an inward sigh, Rosalind headed back down the stairs to the main courtyard. Skyhold was magnificent, but it was probably too much to hope for a bath and a feather bed tonight. Too much to hope for any rest. 

*

“You can’t be serious,” Rosalind gasped, panic rising inside her.

The advisors, the leaders of the Inquisition, stood around her in a secluded room off the main courtyard. It looked as though it had once been a scullery or something. Not a fitting place to be told that one is about to be crowned a leader of a heretical organization, Rosalind thought. Then again, I’m not a fitting leader.

Cassandra glowered, folding her arms across her chest and widening her stance, as though preparing for a physical fight. “Of course we are serious. The Inquisition needs a leader. You have proven yourself worthy.”

“But. . . but this is madness,” Rosalind protested, backing away from them. “The Inquisition has leaders. It has the four of you.”

“My lady, consider this, please. You saw what happened after the flight from Haven,” Josephine interjected in soothing tones. “We were fighting like children. You spurred us to action. Four leaders is simply three too many. For efficiency’s sake, if nothing else, we need someone in charge.”

“Well, there are three of you to choose from. Pick someone.” Rosalind cried.

“We have,” Cassandra growled back.

“You saved us all, in Haven itself, my lady,” Leliana added. “It would be madness not to heed Andraste’s wishes, no?”

“Andraste?” Rosalind gasped.

“I do not believe we would have survived Haven were it not for her Grace,” Cassandra’s brows met fierce over her heated eyes, daring anyone to contradict her. “And her Grace was manifest in you.”

But I’m not. . . but. . . I don’t. . . I’m no one’s chosen,” Rosalind blurted out. She couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“I’ve told you before,” Cassandra replied in a hard voice, “I believe, even if you do not.”

“Really, you are a good choice for several reasons,” Josephine stepped between Rosalind and Cassandra, laying her hand on Rosalind’s arm. “There is, of course, the popular belief that you are Andraste’s chosen which, I admit, after the events of Haven, even I am willing to give credibility.” Rosalind opened her mouth to object again, but Josephine hurried on, speaking over any possible objections. “There is also your noble background and title, both of which could be quite useful going forward, and your family ties to the Templars and to the Chantry—“

“I’m a mage,” Rosalind exclaimed, shouting much louder than she’d intended. Everyone stilled at this. Cassandra wore an expression of exasperated determination, Leliana one of serene faith, and Josephine’s hand feel away from Rosalind’s arm as she took an involuntary step back in stunned silence. 

Only Cullen’s face reflected any Rosalind’s own apprehension. He wasn’t meeting her gaze, and looked very uncomfortable. She seized this fact gratefully, stepping towards him. “Tell them, Commander!”

He stepped back as she advanced, as though he wanted to keep as much distance between them as possible, and began to rub the back of his neck. “Actually,” he said, still not meeting her gaze, “I—I supported Cassandra when she suggested you.”

“Why?” It was all Rosalind could think to ask.

A flush crept up Cullen’s cheeks. “Because, in truth, you are already leading us, my lady. You have been leading since the day you decided to approach the mages at Redcliffe.”

“But. . . I’m a mage,” Rosalind repeated again, in a small, hollow voice. “Would you. . . would anyone . . . follow a mage?”

At that, Cullen did raise his eyes, meeting Rosalind’s gaze, and there was a hard determination in those warm brown depths. “I would,” he replied steadily, with no hesitation.

“We all would,” Josephine supplied. “And it isn’t so unusual. I understand that, in the Free Marches, a mage’s influence was severely limited. But in Orlais, mages are often pillars of society. Why, just look at Madam de Fer.”

But Rosalind wasn’t listening. She was still locked in Cullen’s gaze. He looked confident and resolved, but also unfathomably sad. 

In the end, she had agreed to take the title of Inquisitor. She had agreed because the mark on her hand still flared painfully, warning that the Breach may not be fully sealed. She had agreed because the Elder One needed to be stopped, and the dark future she and Dorian had seen needed to be averted. She had agreed because Josephine’s arguments regarding her fitness to lead were surprisingly persuasive.

But mostly, if she was honest, she had agreed because a former Templar had looked her in the eye, without fear, and pledged to follow where she led.


	12. The Inquisitor

With a question, Cole had titled Cullen's entire world on it's axis. And with a song, Mother Giselle steadied him. Still, he was far from well. He'd pushed his body far, far beyond the limits of his own endurance, and the craving for lyrium resurfaced with a vengeance. Thankfully, there was little for him to do beyond follow.

And avoid Cole.

Being near Cole brought up memories of too many things he'd rather forget. He feared the boy was a demon, picking through his thoughts like that demon long ago. It was only Cole's benign countenance, and Rosalind's implicit trust in him, that stayed Cullen's hand after that fateful evening when Cole had spilled his most private thoughts before him. Still, he asked Cassandra, Solas and Vivienne to look into the matter for him. Maybe asking all three of them to evaluate the boy was a bit overkill, but Cullen couldn't afford to be too cautious. Not again.

Never again.

Rosalind Trevelyan led them through the Frostbacks and safely guided them to Skyhold, and every single member of the Inquisition followed. The significance was not lost on Cullen. And when Cassandra approached him with her firm belief that Rosalind should be made Inquisitor, he knew it was only a formality. She already was their leader. Declaring it was the only logical course.

But it hurt. The bright aching spark of joy he’d felt since Rosalind’s rescue guttered low in his chest. He loved her. Curse that demon-boy Cole, but he was right. Cullen had passed his heart over into Rosalind’s keeping without even realizing he was doing it. He loved her. And her status as Inquisitor was just one more reason, in a litany of reasons, why there was nothing he could do—nothing he should do—about it. 

It would be totally inappropriate, he told himself. She is our leader now. And we’re at war. And she may well be divinely touched. Holiest of holys. It just wasn’t possible. And you . . . but it was best not to think about himself. There was a litany of inadequacies waiting there. No end of reasons why he was not fit to be loved, especially by a mage. 

And remember the last time, his darkest thoughts whispered at him. Remember enchanger Amell. Kinloch hold. He couldn’t afford to give into those strong emotions again. Never again. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so damned besotted by Amell he would have seen what was happening. Perhaps he could have stopped it.

That truth hurt. But it was a small, silent pain. The people needed Lady Trevalyen. They needed her to be divine. To be their leader. Their saviour. What was his heart’s yearning when compared to the weight of the need of the whole inquisition?

A small pain. Nothing more.

So why did it feel so big? he thought.

Rosalind had acted like a caged animal when they told her of their plans to make her the Inquisitor. And Cullen’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of it. He wanted to gather her in his arms and shelter her from this. To take the weight of this responsibility off her shoulders and bear it himself. 

But he knew that was impossible. The people had faith in her. Not him. They would not follow him.

He’d watched her square her shoulders again under the weight of this new responsibility they laid on her, and felt his chest constrict painfully.

Josephine had hurried Rosalind out of the room, talking about preparations for the ceremony that would be held the following day, and Leliana headed off to send some ravens somewhere about something. Cullen honestly wasn’t listening anymore.

His heart hurt. His head throbbed. And his eyes felt dry and itchy. He was tired beyond belief, and the call of lyrium was throbbing in his temples.

Cassandra eyed Cullen speculatively before saying “you should rest, Commander. We will need your aid tomorrow in conducting the ceremony that will confer the status of Inquisitor on Lady Trevelyan.”

“Of course,” Cullen replied. And this time, he had taken Cassandra's words to heart. He needed rest. He could not begin to untangle the mess that Cole's question had made of his life until he did. The cry for lyrium to bolster his failing body was too strong to hear anything else. And there was a new, frightening edge to this insistent call that hadn't been there before. He was afraid it had something to do with Cole. He was more afraid that it didn't.

Still, he needed to sleep. So, finding a quiet and mostly clean room in one of Skyhold's watch towers, away from prying eyes, he laid out his bedroll, and almost instantly fell into the Fade.

Rosalind approached him through the Fade in his dreams. Her cold, unreadable mask was in place. “Commander, may I speak with you?” she asked.

“Of course, my lady,” he'd replied automatically.

She turned and guided him down long corridors that looked vaguely familiar. Kinloch Hold he realized in horror, glancing down to see that he wore the armour of a new templar recruit.

“No,” he stopped in his tracks. “Not here. Why are you here?”

“I've always been here, ser,” she replied calmly. But her eyes were wrong. Black, yes, but not fearless. Instead they were heated with malicious desire.

“No, not again. I know what you are. You aren't her. I will stay strong.” Cullen cried.

Rosalind merely laughed, and her laughter, like her eyes, held a dangerous desire. Cullen drew his sword, but before he could advance on her, he was caught in a sizzling cage of magic. His sword was gone. Not that he was sure he'd be able to use it on her anyway.

“Are you afraid of me, ser?” she asked, approaching him. “I think I'm afraid of you. Will you dominate me? Smite me? Spank me?” She asked, laughing again. “Have you taken a vow of Chastity, Commander?”

“No. Stop. I know you. You are not human. I will stay strong. For my brothers. The templars of Kinloch hold.” He screamed.

She slipped easily through the sizzling bars of his cage, transforming into a desire demon as she did so. “Your brothers are all dead. They have no need of your strength now. Haven't you been strong long enough, Ser?” She purred in his ear, before tugging at his earlobe with her teeth.

“No, leave me,” he cried. Or, he tried to cry. An unspeakably horrible desire was coiling in his body, and, against his will his cock twitched to life. Hot tears of shame burned his eyes at his body's own betrayal. “You're not her.”

She seized the back of his neck forcefully, drawing him down to her, and pressing her body against his own. “You cannot have her, poor templar boy. But I can be her if you wish. Tell me. . . why do you desire?”

His cock strained against his trousers and his pulse raced. She kissed along his jaw, trying to claim his mouth. “No,” he cried, “no!” Heedless of the pain it would cause, he flung himself backwards, coming up hard against the prison's magical walls.

The demon too fell. She jerked towards him with a cry of pain, sprawling, at his feet and once again assuming the appearance of Rosalind Trevelyan. She looked up at him, her eyes filling with tears and her face wearing an expression of shock and betrayal.

She backed away from him in fear, but could not back away far.

It was then that he noticed that she wore a collar.

And he held the leash.

Bile rose at the back of his throat.

Rosalind looked up at him, her eyes swimming with tears, and said softly, “Mages cannot be treated like people. They are weapons. And a weapon must be controlled. Leashed. Else they could burn an entire city to the ground on a whim.” Only her voice didn't quite sound like her voice.

It sounded like his.

It was his.

He'd spoken those words before. Long ago.

“Leave me!” He shouted, screaming himself into wakefulness, heart pounding and stomach churning with nausea.

Disoriented, he thrashed in his bedroll for a moment, chest heaving with the effort, certain that he was caught in some new trap. When he realized where he was, he sat up, breathing heavily. He scrubbed his face with his hand, trying to banish the dream. But the horror of it would not leave him.

“She isn't like that,” Cullen repeated to himself. “And you aren't that man anymore.”

Both were true. He knew that both were true. But would Rosalind, could she, ever rely on a man who had once called her kind a weapon? Who had once demanded that all the mages in Kinloch Hold be put to the sword? If she knew the man he had been, if she knew what he had done, and allowed to be done, under his supervision, surely she would despise him.

And if she knew what had been done to him . . . 

Could she ever love a man like that?

“No,” he whispered softly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

He swallowed hard, straightened his shoulders, and rose to meet the coming day where Rosalind would be officially declared Inquisitor.

 

*

“So, you’re to be made Inquisitor, and you want me to open a pub? Is that about the size of it, Frostbite?” Varric drawled, pushing his chair away from the make-shift desk he’d erected beside the biggest fireplace in Skyhold and turning to face her.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Rosalind replied, smiling.

“And these two pieces of information go together because. . .” 

“Varric,” Rosalind took a deep breath, “this is going to get ugly. You know that. I know it. I’ll be lucky to live through it.”

“You’re just a pile of cheerfulness today, Frostbite.”

“Look,” Rosalind ran her hands through her hair, “I’m not much good at this, okay? I don’t make friends easily.”

“You don’t say,” Varric drawled, arching an eyebrow.

“Funny,” Rosalind snapped. “Look, I thought. . . there was a pub in Haven and. . .”

“A pub you never entered, I noticed,” Varric supplied.

“Yes. . . well. . .” she trailed off.

“Might’ve helped with that whole ‘making friends’ thing.” He raised both eyebrows now.

“Might have, but making friends wasn’t high on my priority list, then. I was mostly just trying not to die.”

“And now?”

“Now. . . look this isn’t about me, Varric. It’s about them. The old pub, the one in Haven. . . people needed it. Didn’t they? They needed a place to go and feel. . .” safe “happy. They needed fun. Something to boost spirits. So, I was thinking that. . . I was thinking we should have that here. And. . .”

“There’s more?” Varric asked.

“And. . . there should be a party there. After the ceremony. I mean, ceremonies can be a bit—“

“Stuffy?” 

“I was going to say formal,” Rosalind replied, smiling in spite of herself as she pictured Josephine’s reaction to someone calling her event stuffy. “People just can’t really relax at them. They can’t really celebrate.”

“Okay,” Varric was grinning now. “So, you’re telling me that your first act as leader is going to be to open a pub and throw a party?”

Rosalind grinned back in spite of herself. “Is it a bad idea?”

“Frostbite, it’s a brilliant idea. And Cassandra’s going to hate it. Which, incidentally, makes it even more brilliant.”

“So, you’ll help me?”

“Leave it to me, fearless leader! And, if you’ll take my advice,” Varric paused. It was almost, but not quite, a question.

“Yes?” Rosalind prompted.

“You’ll stop by this pub. You need fun too, Frostbite. And just you, not all those titles you drag around like dead weights. I mean, I know you’re allergic to people but . . .” he trailed off, turning back to the stack of papers on his makeshift desk.

Rosalind raised her eyebrows, “I'm not against the company of others, Varric.”

“Please, you couldn't be more standoffish if you literally had spikes growing out of your body. Don't get me wrong,” he said, “It's working for you. The more withdrawn you are, the higher your legend grows.”

Rosalind sat down on the edge of the desk at that, stunned. “What?” she asked.

“What?” he replied, riffling through the papers, looking for something.

“What do you mean 'the higher my legend grows'? You think I keep to myself on purpose?”

Varric raised an eyebrow, “You don't?”

“I—well—not to grow some legend.” I do it to keep others safe. Mages shouldn't have friends. They shouldn't give license to emotions. They shouldn't. . . they shouldn't feel. The image of a young boy, half abomination, with a templar sword lodged deep in his belly rose unbidden to Rosalind's mind before she could blink it away. She shook her head. “I just. . . Varric, it's easier this way.”

“Yeah I get that,” Varric said gently, turning to face her. “I know you can't possibly be a cold as you pretend. You'd literally be dead if you were. And I know you're dealing with a lot. Hell, Frostbite, we all are. The whole world is going crazy and everyone's just trying to cope as best we can. But, the more you keep yourself apart from us, the more you're viewed as an outsider. As a stranger. As not really a person. And you know what happens to characters like that in a story, Frostbite?” he didn't wait for her to answer. “They get run out of town. . . or martyred.” He found the paper he was looking for and dipped his quill in some ink.

“I like you, Frostbite,” he continued, as he scribbled away on the paper, “don't ask me why. I guess I just have a soft spot for prickly dangerous things,” he patted Bianca affectionately, “so if you're taking my advice and you don't have to, you should get out there more often. Get to know the people around you, and let them get to know you. Because being alone is not easier. Trust me.” He folded the paper and stuffed it into his breast pocket. “Now, I’m off to see a bard about a bird,” he said winking. “I might have some news to share with you at our party.”

And so saying, he left.

*

It was a beautiful day for a ceremony, and Cullen believed in this cause, and in Rosalind to see it through, implicitly. The only problem was that Rosalind herself seemed to be missing. No one had seen her since the evening before. No one was sure where she had chosen to make her quarters, or what had become of her after her meeting with her advisers. Cullen asked everyone, from the stable boy to the surgeon. No one had seen her.

Had she vanished? Cullen thought, remembering her protestations against becoming Inquisitor. Or had something else, something worse, happened. After all, the last time she’d gone missing was. . . Haven.

Cullen began a systematic search of the whole fortress, feeling like he was looking for a needle in a haystack. There were just so many rooms, half of which were full of junk. There were any number of places she could be. And he had no idea where to begin.

He had just finished a sweep of the lower courtyard and was about to climb to the inner yard when Solas appeared at his elbow, and requested a word. Cullen followed the elf mage into a deserted room by the stables. “I have a message for you,” Solas said, looking decidedly amused.

“Oh?”

“Cole asked me to speak with you. He claims that it hurts you to speak with him. From what he said, I take it you were trying to assess the Lady's whereabouts?”

“Yes.” Cullen tensed at the mention of Cole.

“Cole has asked me to inform you that Lady Rosalind is not missing. She is still in Skyhold, but is currently meeting with Varric about something secret. Cole said he couldn't tell more or he'd ruin the story.”

“What does that mean?” Cullen asked most sharply than he intended. 

“I don’t know. He would not tell me either.” If Cullen’s abrupt tone affected the elf, he didn’t show it. “In any case, she has not run off. He said you'd worry about that.”

“Ah,” Cullen frowned, hesitating. “I—Is Cole sure she's here?”

“He seemed to be. If you wish to learn more, why not ask him yourself?”

“Ah. . .” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, remembering the way that strange boy seemed to pick through his memories, one by one.

Solas arched an eyebrow, carefully observing Cullen's agitation. “Commander, I note that that you are very uncomfortable around Cole. I should tell you, your fears are, I believe, unwarranted. You asked me to investigate the boy's nature, and I have done so. Cole is not a demon. But he is from the Fade. I believe he's a spirit.”

“Is there a difference?” Cullen shot back sarcastically before he could stop himself.

“Indeed, there is. Though, to the untrained eye, it doesn't appear so,” Solas replied calmly, still apparently unfazed by Cullen’s outburst. “I believe Cole to be a spirit of compassion. He is genuine in his desire to help, and to ease suffering. I would think this was undeniably demonstrated by the distance he has kept from you since Haven. Whatever passed between the two of you, Cole has recognized that his presence upsets you. If he wished to cause you more suffering, as demons typically do, the course of action would be clear. The fact that he chooses to spare you from his presence should tell you something about his nature.”

Cullen frowned in thought. “I suppose,” he replied. He filed that thought away as something to think about.

“Well, my message is delivered. I was to assure you that the Lady Rosalind is still here and will be present for the formal occasion later this afternoon. If there is nothing else?” He made it a question, but didn’t wait for Cullen to answer before giving him a short nod and walking away.

*

In less than an hour, Cullen found himself at the head of the Inquisition's forces, beneath the main staircase in the courtyard of Skyhold. He watched Rosalind, being led to the stairs by Cassandra, and his heart ached for her. The burden resting on her shoulders was already so heavy, and this would only add more. Cullen was sure she could carry the burden of all their faith. But he wished she didn't have to. Nonetheless, he led the people, rallied them to the cause, and stood among them below Rosalind's feet as she was handed the ceremonial sword of office. It was too big for her hands, but she took it firmly, without faltering.

“Last time I stood before you,” she said in a low voice that, nevertheless, carried easily across the whole courtyard, “I told you of my brother, of my fear, and of my rage at having lost him. He was taken from me, just as people who are dear to you were taken from you. And I have seen the face of the one who stole so much from us. On that day I told you that our anger would keep us alive. I need you all to stay angry now. We know our enemy. We know who stole the people we loved from us, and who turned our world upside-down. Some have claimed he is a God. But I’ve seen him. And I can tell you he is no more a God than I am Andraste’s chosen.”

At these words a susurrus moved through the crowed, and Josephine bit her lip. Cassandra looked ready to punch something, or decapitate another practice dummy. But it made Cullen smile. 

“What he is, is a Tevinter magister who thought too highly of himself,” Rosalind continued. “An arrogant fool who likes to listen to himself talk, and thinks he has the right to do what he likes just because he has power. He cares nothing for us, or for our pain. He thinks he is meant to rule, but we all know magic is meant to serve. Help me show him that he is wrong. Stay angry. Don’t give into fear. And I promise you, I will not rest until we stop him. Magic is meant to serve, never to rule. And I—I will serve you. I will serve the Inquisition with everything I have, as best I can. And we . . . we will stop this bastard.”

He saw her anger, and felt it all around him, as though the walls of this ancient fortress thrummed in time to her rage. A calm controlled anger. Raging just beneath the icily placid face she presented.

They had chosen her, the people of the Inquisition. And that morning in Skyhold, she chose to lead them. And to keep them safe.

She is magnificent. He thought. Too magnificent for a small former templar to lay any claims to.


	13. No Rest for the Herald

After Haven, she'd thought the weight of the Inquisition’s faith in her was heavy. Now, now it was crushing. Suffocating. But Rosalind squared her shoulders, and tried to bear it the only way she knew how. You can do this, because you have to she'd repeat to herself a thousand times that day, alternating that with promises that, when this was over, the library and cup of tea would be waiting.

In the meantime, there was something concrete she could do, thanks to Varric upholding his part of the plan. She could give the people a party, and give herself a moment’s respite from their hungry, fanatical gaze. 

After the ceremony, Varric threw open the doors to the newly created pub, and Rosalind ushered the people of the Inquisition inside. The Heralds Rest. Ironic, that she thought as she sat inside, idly stirring some fruity drink concoction, it doesn't feel very restful.

It felt cramped, crowded, too loud and too hot. But the people around her didn’t seem to mind. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. They were laughing, drinking, playing games with each other and an impromptu band had even assembled in the corner, prompting some of the braver among the Inquisition to dance.

Idly Rosalind wondered how long she would need to stay before she could make an escape and find somewhere quiet to rest. She couldn’t remember the last decent sleep she’d had. She knew Varric was right, and that she should try to close the distance between herself and the people of the Inquisition soon before she was nothing but a legend and a symbol. But she was soo tired.

“It's a party, darling. You might try to have fun, hmm?” Dorian said, sliding into the seat next to her and passing her a drink. It wasn't fruity. Instead it smelled as though just inhaling it would scour her nostrils clean.

“Hmm? Sorry, what?” Rosalind asked, pulling herself out of her thoughts with an effort.

“A party. Do they not allow southern mages to have them? Do your circles frown on such things? Even so, I'd imagine you'd heard about them before. Or read about them, yes?”

“I might have,” Rosalind replied, drily, arching an eyebrow.

“Well, come on then. You've been moping in this corner for the better part of an hour. People will talk, you know.”

“Oh, and what will they say? That the Herald of Andraste doesn't know how to party? So what? I don't think Andraste did, either, for that matter.”

“Darling, you're hardly boosting morale.”

“I thought the pub was supposed to boost morale. Isn't that the point of all the drinking and singing?” She could hear the irritation in her own voice and tried to control it. But she was soo tired. 

Dorian quirked an eyebrow at her tone. “You southern-bred mages certainly are sheltered, aren't you.”

Rosalind narrowed her eyes, huffed, and finally met Dorian's gaze. “Dorian, what is it that you want?”

“To see you have a bit of fun. You could try it, just a bit. It won't kill you, probably. I mean, why else is this pub here, anyway? And it would do them a world of good. They see you having fun and they think, 'Well, if the Herald of Andraste can cut loose, maybe this isn't quite the end of the world yet', yes?” He gestured at the rest of the Inquisition, drinking and chatting eagerly all around her. 

Rosalind followed his gaze, and something in her chest loosened. As though sensing her softening, Dorian leaned closer and placed a hand over hers. “Only we two know what the world will look like a year from now if the Inquisition falls.” She met his gaze and those dark mahogany eyes were guileless and clear. “We must do everything in our power to see that it doesn’t. And today,” he smiled, eyes dancing, “that means joining the party so the people can see their fearless leader dance.”

She found her own lips curving in an answering smile. “I believe you’re right, Dorian.”

“I usually am, yes,” the man replied. “Anyway, I don't see what there is to mope about. We're alive. We have a lavish castle to live in.”

“Lavish?” Rosalind smirked, “do you northern-bred mages live in poverty or something?”

Dorian laughed, throwing his head back. “Well, it will be lavish once Madame de Fer is done with it, I assume. In the meantime, the drink is decent, and there are no arch demons in sight. So, my lady Inquisitor, why don't you finish your drinks and come dance with me? Unless you don't know how. . .”

Rosalind nearly choked on laughter at that, remembering her father's insistence that she learn all the fashionable dances of Thedas. But instead she said “I think I might have read something about dancing somewhere.” She set aside Dorian's drink, and the sickly fruity concoction the bar tender had made her, and took his hand.

In a moment she was whirling on the dance floor, matching Dorian step for step. The crowd roared to see them, and Rosalind felt, for the first time in days, that they were seeing her, and not some holy figure. Her spirits rose as Dorian led her through dance after dance.

He was quite good at all the Tevinter dances, and the ones from Antivia and Orlais but when the impromptu band struck up a melody from the Free Marches, Dorian's step faltered, and Varric smoothly pushed him aside. “Let the pro's deal with this, Sparkler,” he laughed, bowing to Rosalind and beginning the first steps of the fast-flying Marcher's dance. Rosalind chuckled at Dorian's affronted expression, and followed Varric's lead.

When the dance ended Varric signalled for Rosalind to follow him over to the bar. He called out an order to the bartender that Rosalind didn’t hear, but evidently the bartender did, for he nodded and began pulling a pint. Varric hopped onto a vacand bar stool and pulled a letter out of his breast pocket.

“I’ve just heard from a friend of mine,” he said to Rosalind, waving the letter. “Well, I’ve heard from a friend of a friend. Or, rather, an acquaintance, since I doubt Aveline would consider me a friend. In any case,” he took the pint gratefully from the bartender, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet. He should be here in a couple of days. But. . . well. . . we need to handle this meeting carefully.”

Rosalind studied Varric’s face for a moment, while her mind searched for where she’d heard the name ‘Aveline’ before. “The guard-captain of Kirkwall?” She asked suddenly. “Hawke?”

“Shit, Frostbite, keep it down,” Varrie gripped her arm. “Yeah. Aveline got in touch with Hawke. He’s coming here. But I don’t want everyone to know, alright?”

“You don’t want Cassandra or Cullen to know.” Rosalind supplied.

“Well, now that you mention it, no. I’m not too keen on the woman who imprisoned and threatened me as part of her search for Hawke knowing he’s coming here, nor would I like the man who chased him out of Kirkwall to know. Okay?”

“Cassandra wanted him to lead the Inquisition, didn’t she?” Rosalidn asked.

“Well, maybe. She wanted either that or to kill him for starting the mage-templar war. You know Cassandra, she’s always all or nothing. No middle ground there.”

“But, but he didn’t start the war, did he? I read ‘Hard in Hightown’--”

“Oh yeah? A fan, huh? Didn’t think it’d be your thing, Frostbite. You know, since it deals with actual emotions.”

Rosalind pulled a face. “I was trying to get to know the people at Haven, and you wrote the damn thing. I thought it would be a good way to get to know you.”

“Sure, yeah. That makes sense. You would choose to read a book rather than, you know, actually hanging out and getting to know me.”

“Yes, we’ve established that I’m allergic to people already, alright. But, about Hawke and the Inquisition. Cassandra wouldn’t hold Hawke responsible, would she? Anders started the war. And your account suggests that Hawke didn’t know anything about Anders’ plan. Or was that just creative license?”

“No,” and suddenly Varric looked very old. “That was true. None of us knew. If we had. . .” he trailed off. “I dunno. I thought of Blondie as a friend, right up until. . .”

Rosalind patted Varric on the back. “I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly. 

“Thanks.” Varric bowed his head. After a moment, he took a deep breath. “No sense focusing on the past, though. This is supposed to be an uplifting party, right?”

“Right,” Rosalind smiled. “So, if Hawke is coming here, does that mean he will want to lead the Inquisition? Like Cassandra wanted in the first place?”

“Worried about that latest title, Frostbite?”

“Hardly,” Rosalind sighed. “But Hawke might be a better leader. He’s more familiar with all of this than I am. He was there when this all began. And he’s encountered Corypheus before, right?”

“He has.” Varric’s voice was flat.

“And. . . And Hawke’s not a mage.” Rosalind finished.

Varric gave her a long look. “Shit, Frostbite. Anders was a mage, and he did some terrible shit. But he didn’t use magic to do it. He buit a bomb. Anyone could’ve done that.” He took a long pull on his beer, swallowed and continued. “Bethany was a mage, and she was the sweetest and gentlest person I ever knew.” He stared off into the distance thoughtfully. “Ya know what, Frostbite? I don’t think being a mage has much to do with being a good or bad person. And as for Hawke being the Inquisitor. Well, Hawke was never much of a leader, to tell you the truth.”

“But. . .”

“Oh, I know how he comes across in the books. But he was always an opportunist. He did what he needed to to survive, and didn’t much care about anything beyond tomorrow. And now. . . Frostbite, the whole mess in Kirkwall cost Hawke his whole family. He doesn’t really care about anyone or anything now. I can’t imagine he’ll give a damn about the Inquisition or it’s cause. He’s coming because I asked him to, and because I’m probably the last friend he has left.”

“Oh. . .” Rosalind fell silent.

“I know you didn’t want to hear that. I’m sorry, kid. But I think you’re our Inquisitor. And, much as I love Hawke, I think we’re better off with you.” He took another long drink, and seemed inclined to say no more.

Rosalind turned and left Varric at the bar. She stood on the edges of the crowd staring at nothing and going over in her mind what she knew of Kirkwall, and of Hawke. She was so lost in these thoughts, staring blankly at the crowd before her, that she didn't notice Solas's approach. “It seems our new Inquisitor is quite accomplished in the world of dance,” Solas commented, drifting out of the shadows. “Tell me, Lady Trevelyan, do you know any elvish dances?”

“Well. . .” Rosalind hesitated. She'd violated the terms of her cloister in the circle to visit the Dalish clan on the outskirts of Ostwick, among others. Given her position. . . and what she'd seen. . . the templars had overlooked her transgression. To a point. There had been solitary confinement, but no Tranquil brand. Still, it wasn't common knowledge that she'd spent a season with the Dalish and, given Solas's attitudes towards the Dalish, she could not imagine that he was referring to them by his question.

Solas ignored her hesitation, his eyes already searching her face in a way that led Rosalind to believe he was all too aware of her secrets. He turned to the band, calling out the name of a tune Rosalind didn't hear, then turned back to her extending his hand. “Will you do me the honour, my lady?” Solas asked.

The first few mournful notes filled the hall, and Rosalind recognized the song as one the Dalish did indeed play. In fact, it was also a song she'd heard in the alienage in Ostwick, though she'd never seen city elves perform the accompanying dance. Even among the Dalish, knowledge of the dance was not wide-spread, though the clan outside of Ostwick had retained it.

Still, it was a popular, haunting melody. And a sad song. Though why she thought of it as sad, she couldn't say. She'd read the words only once, and they were written in old elvish. Not even the Dalish knew exactly what they meant and Rosalind's own limited elvish vocabulary was certainly not up to the challenge. It went by several names, but was often simply referred to as The Song of Autumn. The music itself evoked a powerful sense of yearning, mystery and loss. It always made her heart ache sweetly.

Before considering whether she should reveal this much knowledge of Dalish lore, she rested her fingertips against the palm of Solas's hand and began the slow flowing moves of the ancient dance that accompanied this tune. She found the steps came back to her easily, and remembered learning it at the hands of Fennick, the First of the Dalish tribe outside of Ostwick. Fingertips brushed fingertips, hands clasped hands, arms lifted and lowered, as Rosalind and Solas spun around each other. The crowd around them grew still and drew back, sounds of merriment dying away as they circled, sweeping past each other, extending away only to be drawn back by the music into each other's arms.

In many ways this ancient dance was very chaste. No gyrating hips. Their bodies were never pressed together. Instead, they moved in widening and narrowing circles around each other. And yet, for all the chastity, there was a subtlety built into this slow, flowing dance. A tension. And as the dance came to a close with Solas holding her hands loosely over her head in one of his own as she spun into his embrace, stillness filled the hall. Rosalind glanced up into Solas's face and saw a mixture of calculating curiosity and regret there, before he released her, stepping back and bowing.

“You dance the Din'Anshiira very well, Lady Trevelyan,” he said, his words echoing in the stillness of the hall, calling the dance by a name Rosalind had never heard. “Truly, I could not have asked for a better partner even from one of the people. It appears you are as accomplished as you seemed.”

“You flatter me,” Rosalind replied quietly while her mind worked furiously. How did Solas come to know this dance? And why did he know it by a different name? Solas merely bowed again, the curiosity still evident in his face, but he turned to make his leave.

And the spell in the hall was broken. It erupted in a deafening echo of clapping and cheering which, too, slowly died away. People began to chatter again, voices rising with laughter and shouts. The band struck up a lively Fereldon tune that Rosalind didn't know, and people began to move onto the dance floor.

Rosalind was pushed to one side, grateful not to be the center of attention anymore and people rushed to the floor to and began to dance. She scanned the crowd, her spirits lifting. Everyone looked happy, open, and they met her gaze without the taint of fear or the fervor of faith. Here, she was a human being. Here, she was nothing but herself.

And then she saw Cullen. He was pushing through the crowd with a look of misery on his face. It seemed every time she’d seen him since the fall of Haven he’d looked strained, anguished, and miserable. She knew he held himself responsible for the fall of Haven. Even if Cassandra hadn’t told her, the weight of his sense of failure was visible in every line of his body. 

She’d hoped that he would feel a measure of peace, of safety, here in Skyhold as she did. But he wasn’t a mage. He couldn’t feel the stones. Still, something had to be done. The people of the Inquisition needed their commander to be strong for them.

And so did she. Though she couldn’t quite say why.


	14. How many did you save?

He'd gone to the party. Leliana had insisted, taking a firm grip of his arm and steering him there. Before he knew what was happening, Cullen was seated at a low table in the corner, with a beer in hand, and Dorian and Josephine chattering away on either side of him.

He was exhausted. Utterly exhausted. But he never wanted to sleep again. The thought of Rosalind appearing in his dreams made his skin crawl with longing, desire and disgust.

So he drank his beer and made small talk with the Tevinter mage who set his teeth on edge. Josephine kept the conversation on track, and steered it deftly away from topics that might ignite tempers, like the circle, templars, slaves, or magic in general. Really, she had quite a knack for smoothing things over, and Cullen found he was almost enjoying himself at the end of his first beer. He wished he'd thought to bring Josephine along the first time he'd tried to talk to Rosalind. Maybe he wouldn't have made such a mess of it.

The thought of Rosalind caused his heart to lurch painfully and bile to rise in his throat as he remembered his dream. Still, almost without meaning to, he found himself scanning the hall looking for her.

After several minutes of searching, he spotted her in the darkest corner of the bar, alone, absent-mindedly stirring a drink and showing no signs of actually drinking it. She looked lost and very lonely. And he remembered the way her shoulders had squared under the weight of what they were asking her to do, again and again. Remembered the way she kept them all at arms length, hiding a bruised heart behind an unreadable mask. Before Corypheus, he'd thought maybe it was possible to become her friend. The shoulder she could lean on. The support it was so evident she desperately needed.

But now. . . now he loved her. Now his heart battered itself relentlessly against the walls of his chest as he stared at her, and his mind quaked with fear. The last time he had cared for someone he'd almost lost his mind. And the emotions he'd felt then—in Kinloch Hold—were nothing compared to the hurricane he was feeling now. He couldn't risk that again. He would not risk becoming that man again. His duty was to the Inquisition.

“Commander?” Josephine prompted him gently, placing her hand on his forearm, and calling him back to the conversation.

Cullen jerked his gaze away from Rosalind's bent head and met Josephine's concerned expression. “Sorry. . . what?” he asked.

“Is my company not scintillating enough for you?” Dorian asked, “or is it another's company you seek?”

“What? No. . . I. . .” Cullen stuttered, praying that neither of them had noticed the direction of his gaze.

“Our Lady Inquisitor, perhaps?” Dorian smirked, looking in Rosalind's direction.

Damn, Cullen thought.

Josephine's eyes widened momentarily, as she turned to follow Dorian's gaze. “Oh dear,” she said, “Lady Trevelyan certainly doesn't seem to be getting into the spirit of things at all. I'd hoped she would enjoy herself here.”

“Never fret my darling,” Dorian flashed a brilliant smile. “I suspect the lady just needs some encouragement. And a stiffer drink.” And with that, he pushed away from their table, called an order to the bar tender, and took a drink over to Rosalind.

In a matter of moments, Dorian had Rosalind spinning on the dance floor and even smiling. It was good to see her smile. Cullen laughed with everyone else when Dorian faltered his way through the first few steps of the Marcher's reel. Then Varric cut in, taking Rosalind's hand surely and leading her through the dance like an expert.

“I'm certain Varric would not take it amiss if you wished to cut in, Commander,” Josephine offered, watching Cullen carefully.

“I. . . no. He knows the dance better than I do,” Cullen replied, his eyes falling to his hands, loosely resting on the table. Calloused. Scarred. Hands used to holding a blade, not a lady's hand. He clenched his fists, and quashed the powerful emotions squeezing his chest.

“This isn't court, Commander. I doubt anyone will mind if you don't know the steps perfectly. We all deserve a bit of fun after. . . after Haven.”

But Cullen's chance was over. The song died, and Varric and Rosalind made their way off the dance floor.

“It was a kind thought, Ambassador, but I'm not really very suited to dance.”

Josephine shrugged and took a sip of her sparkling wine, turning to watch the crowd again. A moment later Dorian had swept the Lady Ambassador away to dance a sensual Antivan dance. She laughed aloud as he spun her on the floor amidst whoops of encouragement and Sera’s bawdy cat-calls. The song was fast, furious and smouldering, leaving both dancers breathless and glistening in sweat when it was over. A roar of applause rose from the crowd as Dorian bowed to Josephine and escorted her back to her seat. She sat again beside Cullen, her face flushed with exertion. 

She looked happy, Cullen thought. They all looked happy. And for that, if nothing else, he was grateful.

It was then that the mournful melody filled the air. So hauntingly beautiful that Cullen feared it might make him cry. The crowd stilled and parted before him, and he saw Rosalind and Solas step into the space created.

Though Rosalind was wearing the same battered, oft-mended clothes she'd been wearing for weeks now, and though her hair was still cropped and impossibly messy, she was stunning. She couldn't have been more stunning if she were in a full ball gown. Every moment was graceful and precise. Effortless in beauty.

He heard his own sharp intake of breath, and saw Josephine's eyebrows lift out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from Rosalind.

Lost in the music, her face a subtle mixture of joy and freedom, Rosalind turned through the steps of the dance, and the crowd stood frozen, following her movements. He'd never seen Rosalind look so soft. So open. So approachable.

So safe.

But of course she wasn't safe. She was a mage. He tried hard to remember that, but the thought kept slipping from his grasp as he watched, lost in the sweet, painful beauty of the dance. She was just so Maker-be-damned stunning.

Stillness fell over the hall as the last note died. Everyone froze, held their breath, and then the hall erupted in applause. Deafening. Everyone shaking themselves as though waking from a dream. Slowly, they returned to other conversations. But things were more subdued now. Softer. No less joyful, but no longer the desperate joy of before. Cullen heard people around him speaking freely of the loss at Haven for the first time, saw people smile as they remembered someone fondly, and heard them praise Rosalind’s courage. The haunting melody had left a bitter-sweet edge to the gathering. It had given people space to be honest with their sorrow and fear, and left everyone’s heart lighter.

Everyone but his. What was Haven, if not his failure? To hear people openly speak about it around him only made him feel more shame.

“My goodness,” Josephine whispered beside him, dabbing at her eyes with a lace hankerchief. “She's quite good, isn’t she?”

“She is, yes,” Cullen replied, hoping neither his face nor voice betrayed the maelstrom of emotion within. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to calm the frightening heat of desire building in the pit of his belly. Josephine was studying him too closely. The tavern was too hot. It was suddenly all too much. “I. . . ah. . . I’m going to step outside. Get some air.”

“Of course,” Josephine smiled, turning to speak with Leliana who had just sat down and wrapped an arm around the Antivan in comfort.

*

A few moments later, Cullen had fought his way through the crowd and climbed the stars to the battlements. He leaned against the walls, breathing the crisp clean air. Refreshing, cool and blissfully silent. He took a deep breath, and looked up into the sky.

It was a moment before he heard soft footfalls on the stars behind him. He expected it was Josephine coming to check on him, or even Leliana here to drag him back to the damned party.

He swallowed hard when he saw who had followed, his stomach tying itself in knots and disrupting all the recently quaffed ale within.

“Commander,” she hesitated at the top of the stairs. “Am I intruding?”

“Not at all,” he replied automatically before he could stop himself.

She smiled and his heart lurched. “I—I wanted to speak with you. Alone.”

“Alone?” He croaked. His mouth was suddenly too dry to speak. 

“Yes. And then I saw you leaving the party. It was getting a bit crowded in there, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” His pulse deafened his ears with it’s roaring in apprehension. Why did she want to see him alone? Could she. . . was it possible she felt something for him too? And what would he do if she did? He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Neither could she. And. . . and he wasn’t worthy of her affection, in any case.

She approached him and he fought the desire to back away, or to take her in his arms. Instead he placed both hands, palms flat, on the battlements and turned to face the inner courtyard.

She stood beside him in the moonlight, staring out over the courtyard as well. Some people were spilling out of the tavern, laughing, dancing and kissing in the moonlight. “They look happy. Funny that anyone can be happy after what happened, isn't it?”

“Yes, my lady,” Cullen replied in a gutteral whisper, forcing his dry throat to work. He coughed and licked his lips. “I think a lot of that is due to you,” he continued, his voice gaining a measure of normalcy. “Morale has greatly improved since you've taken on the role of Inquisitor.”

“Oh. . . Inquisitor Trevelyan. It sounds odd, doesn't it?”

“Not at all,” Cullen replied, still staring at the courtyard. If he avoided looking at her, and ignored the heat he was sure he could feel radiating from her skin, maybe he could make it through this conversation.

“Is that the official response, Commander?” She asked, and even though he wasn’t looking at her, he could hear the smirk in her voice. 

He chuckled softly, “I suppose it is, my lady. But it is true, nonetheless. We needed a leader. And you proved yourself worthy.”

She wrapped her arms around herself against the chill. “That's kind of you to say. I hope you're right.”

“I am confident in your abilities.”

“I—thank you, Commander.” She replied. 

The silence stretched between them again, but Rosalind didn’t seem in any hurry to explain why she needed to see him. She leaned against the battlements, resting her head on her folded arms.. Music drifted out of the tavern, and a cloud passed over the moon, plunging the whole scene into darkness. In that darkness, she began to speak again, her voice barely above a whisper. “Our escape from Haven.. . . it was close. I—I'm relieved that you. . .” her voice hitched and Cullen's heart lurched into his throat, “that so many of us made it out.”

“As am I,” he replied. The words seemed inadequate to express that deep cavernous ache he’d felt as he watched the colour rush back into her cheeks under Adan’s care. “You stayed behind,” He whispered.

Rosalind rose and slowly turned to face him, head bowed, and darkness all around. “Yes. You gave the order to evacuate and I. . . I . . . Don't blame Blackwall, please. He. . . he did everything I asked of him. I forced his loyalty, Commander. I am entirely to blame.”

“Blame?” Cullen stuttered. “No. . . I. . .,” he cleared his throat, and tried again. “My lady, I understand why you did it. I don't blame Blackwall. And. . . Maker's breath . . . I certainly don't blame you!” His throat felt thick with emotion, remembering again how ill-prepared he had been for the attack. How many had been lost. How, in the chaos, he had failed not only the Inquisition, but Rosalind herself. If there was any blame to be laid, he knew it rested squarely on his shoulders. “I—I. . . we almost lost you, my lady. I will not allow the events of Haven to happen again. You have my word.”

As he spoke, the cloud drifted on and the moon reappeared, casting the world in a soft glow. Rosalind's face was illuminated. Her hair shone like sliver, and her eyes were fixed on him, wide with with pain. He couldn’t look away, trapped in her gaze.

“Don't” she breathed, barely a whisper.

“My lady?”

She closed her eyes, biting her lip, and when she re-opened them the pain was gone. Replaced with a keen sympathy. She seemed to be able to see right through him with those disconcerting black eyes. “You did not fail at Haven, Commander.”

“I. . .”

“How many were lost at Haven?” she cut in, not allowing him to continue, though he hardly knew what he'd been planning to say.

“Eighty-two” Cullen replied, promptly. Eighty-two deaths resting heavily on his soul.

“And how many did you save?”

“I. . . My lady?”

“How many souls are alive today, laughing and happy, because of you?”

He shook his head. “You were our salvation, my lady.”

“No,” she replied mildly, but in a voice that broached no argument. “You gave the orders. You rallied the troops. You aimed the trebuchets. When our cause became hopeless, you issued the retreat, guarding the doors of the Chantry yourself. You secured the tents and blankets so our people would not freeze on the mountainside. At every step, you held fear at bay by giving the people a plan. And. . . and you carried me to safety when I could not carry myself.”

“I. . .” He didn't know how to respond. Her eyes glinted with a formidable determination. Disagreement seemed impossible.

“So, how many did you save, Commander?”

“I—I don't know, my lady.”

“Would you like to?”

Cullen nodded, unable to speak.

“Two-hundred and ninety-seven. I asked Josephine. I would think it's just as important a number to remember as eighty-two, wouldn't you, Commander? After all, if you are responsible for eighty-two lost, surely you are also responsible for two-hundred and ninety-seven saved.” She smiled at that and Cullen couldn't stop the answering smile he felt pulling at his own lips. His heart felt lighter than it had since Haven.

“When you put it that way, my lady. . .”

“Good.” She approached him then, closing the distance between them quickly. “I wanted to speak with you,” she said again, “alone.” His shadow fell across her face, her features lost to him again. “To thank you. . .” before Cullen could register what was happening, she was rising up on her toes, steadying herself gently with one hand on his shoulder, “for saving my life,” she said, her breath tickling his ear, before she planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath against the rising tide of desire and yearning coiling through his body, the fierce roaring of blood pulsing in his ears. It sounded like a raging river. When he opened them again, she was gone.

Maker's breath he thought, sagging against the brick wall of the battlements, his legs turned to jelly. She will be the death of me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all I have for now. Thanks for the read if you've stuck with this so far. More coming soon (I hope). I have some plans and rough drafts of Adamant and Orlais now. Just can't decide which to do first. If you have an opinion of which you'd like to see first, let me know!


	15. In The Space of a Year

Rosalind’s heart was hammering hard. She didn’t know why she’d just done what she did. “It’s not so odd,” she told herself as she fled down the stairs from the battlements and headed to the quarters Josephine had allocated to her. 

It had all seemed innocent enough when she following the commander onto the battlements a few moments before. She had wanted to express her gratitude for what he’d done for her. . . well, for everyone. . . but also for her. And that wasn’t so strange, was it? He had organized a search party, after all, combing the mountainside looking for her when everyone else thought the cause was hopeless. 

It wasn’t so strange, was it, to want to thank someone for saving you from freezing to death on the mountainside.

“No,” she said to herself, as she hurried across the vacant great hall of Skyhold, up the dais, past the throne—why in hell was there a throne? She was quite sure it hadn’t been there when they’d arrived—and through the door that lead to her chambers. 

“No,” she said again, closing the door and leaning her forehead against the ancient wood, “but the kiss. . .”

Well, nothing strange there, either, she thought. “It was a very ladylike thing to do, in fact. And it was only a kiss on the cheek,” she told herself. For a member of the Free Marches nobility, a kiss on the cheek was basically a handshake. It meant nothing. Nothing but a small gesture.

But she closed her eyes and could feel again the way his shoulders stiffened beneath her fingers, could hear his sharp intake of breath when her lips touched his cheek.

Such a strong reaction for a such a small gesture. Why? 

The answer seemed obvious, and one she didn’t particularly want to face. So she turned, and plodded up the last flight of stairs to her suite of rooms, if such a sparsely furnished space could be called such. Both Josephine and Vivienne were engaged in ordering and securing furniture for everyone, making Skyhold home, but it would be a number of weeks before any of that arrived. For now, Rosalind’s quarters had a bedroll in one corner, a table and chair someone had quickly fashioned out of scavenged wood near a window, and a bearskin on the floor beside the small fireplace.

Still, it was better than those Maker-be-damned tents Rosalind and the others had cowered in for the last few days in the Frostbacks. She knelt on the stone floor before the fireplace and set about making a fire. In a few moments, she had one roaring and sat back on her heels, watching the flames dance.

The answer was obvious, she thought again, scrubbing her face with her hands. “He’s still afraid of me. I am a mage, after all.” The commander might be willing to follow where Rosalind led, might value her—or more likely the anchor—enough to spend the better part of a hellish winter night search for her against overwhelming odds that she was probably dead, but that didn’t mean he had lost his fear of her.

It didn’t mean they were friends.

Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes, and she scrubbed at them impatiently, furious with herself. What did she expect? Cullen to suddenly forget everything that had happened in Kirkwall? Everything the mages had done? She knew the history of Kirkwall well. All the Free Marcher mages did. She knew what Anders had done, and what had come after; the extent to which the circle had fallen to blood magic. She knew that Cullen had been the knight-captain then, had watched this all unfold. What did she expect?

“It’s fine,” she said softly to herself, swinging her legs out in front of her and extending her boots towards the fire. “It’s fine. Things are already a lot better between us than they were at the start. He speaks to me now, and makes eye-contact with me. This is enough. We work well together and he has faith in my abilities. That’s enough.”

It should have been enough. She had friends now. People who cared for her and were watching out for her. Despite her standoffishness, or maybe because of it, Varric had decided that they were buddies. And Iron Bull. And she thought an awkward sort of friendship was developing between herself and Cassandra.

And Dorian. . . well, you don’t go through what she’d gone through with Dorian without developing some kind of bond.

“So it’s fine. It’s enough,” she said again. And it should have been enough.

But it wasn’t. 

Her chest ached as though a belt were cinched around it too tightly. She didn’t know why. Didn’t know why his reaction stung so keenly. Didn’t know why she couldn’t shake off this feeling.

She leaned back on her hands, huffing our her breath in exasperation.

And felt, again, the magical beat of song in stone thrumming up the inside of her arms, following her veins.

Only this time it felt familiar.

“What the. . .” Rosalind trailed off, turning over to stare at the stone, as though studying it would make it give up its secrets somehow. She sat up, frowning. “Surely not. . .” she said again, but was already unlacing her boots and peeling off her socks. In a moment she stood barefoot on the stones of her chamber, concentrating hard, all thoughts of the ill-fated kiss vanished in the wake of what she was feeling.

It was unmistakable now, as she stood barefoot in the quiet of her chamber. She wondered that she hadn’t recognized it before. But, of course, it had been years since she’d last heard it.

The sorrowful baseline of The Song of Autumn pulsed gently against her feet. 

*

Cullen bolted awake in the wee hours of the morning crying out and pushing something away with his hands.

Not something. Someone.

Rosalind.

The same dream again. A desire demon in Rosalind’s form, taunting and tempting him. Torturing his Templar brothers and sisters before his very eyes. Promising that all of this would stop if only he would give in.

He had wanted to give in.

He rolled over onto his side in his bedroll, cupping his pounding head in his hands. The pain was excruciating.

“Lyrium would make that pain go away,” a soft voice murmured in his head. “It would dull the dreams as well. And the emotions.”

He wanted it. Wanted the sweet promise of numbness that lyrium brought. If he could just go through one day where his head didn’t hurt by the end. If he could just get through one night where his sleep was not tortured by nightmares.

If he could just not feel.

He closed his eyes, grinding the heels of his hands into them, and took a deep breath.

“No,” he said to himself for the hundredth time. Lyrium had numbed him to the point where he hadn’t even noticed the madness of his commander in Kirkwall. It had made him indifferent to the suffering of others. 

He was not that man anymore. Could not allow himself to become that man again.

Though the sky was still the inky black of night, dawn still several hours off, Cullen couldn’t seriously consider returning to his bed. He knew he would find no rest there. So, he lowered his hands and, methodically, began getting ready for the day.

This proved more difficult than he had supposed. His hands shook so badly he cut himself shaving. He fumbled his sword belt twice before securing it around his waist. And the light armour he customarily wore as a reminder of his role and responsibilities in the Inquisition weighed him down more than it ever had before.

He stared at his reflection in the little mirror he used for shaving and fixing his hair. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin beneath them puffy and pink. Stubble clung to his chin in a patchwork and little nicks and cuts wept blood down his neck. His cheeks looked sallow and grey.

He looked like a tired old man. 

He knew that, in this condition, he couldn’t command. He could barely stumble through his morning toilet.

He sighed, feeling a deep inward shame, but accepted the truth without flinching. There was nothing else to be done.

He would have to speak to Cassandra.

*

Someone was poking her in the ribs

“So, you were dancing and you kissed a boy, huh? And you told me that being a mage wouldn’t be any fun!” Maxwell grinned. He was twenty-three. A Chantry brother on the rise.

And she, by the looks of her robes, was a circle mage novice. Not yet harrowed. “What?” She asked, trying to get some sense of where they were, but all was dark around them.

“Dancing with three different men, I hear. One of the of the elf persuasion? And a dwarf? Be careful, Squirt. Mother and father are pretty forward-thinking people, but if you’re interested in a dwarf, that might be a bridge too far for them!” He grinned, poking her in the ribs again. “Then again, maybe it’ll be good for them. Shake this stuffy old family up a bit, hey?”

Rosalind smirked back. “He has his caste pin, I hear.”

“A peer of the realm. Okay, you’ve won mother over. But here’s the real question, Squirt.” Maxwell folded his arms, doing his fearfully accurate impersonation of their father. “Is he rich?” He said in Lord Trevelyan’s deep baritone voice.

Laughing in spite of herself, Rosalind thought about what she knew of Varric. “Probably, yes.”

“Then we must welcome him to the family, with all haste,” He continued in his father’s voice. “How quickly can we rush a wedding without looking indecent?” Maxwell threw his head back, laughing. “Well, there you are, then. You’ve found a way past the parents’ prejudices there. Money and a title. You might just save the Trevelyan family from the embarrassment of financial ruin yet! Well done, sis!”

Rosalind sobered at this, remembering her betrothal. She had been meant to save her family from financial ruin. But that was before the circle. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to mother and father. They had come to visit her as a novice, at least once. And there had been some politely formal letters exchanged. But, over the years, communication had just stopped. It wasn’t exactly an estrangement. Far too polite for that. 

Seeing her shift in mood, Maxwell poked her in the ribs again. “Cheer up, Squirt. So you couldn’t save the family. So what? It isn’t your fault that the Maker chose you for another path. Really, we should be mad at grandfather. He’s the one who mismanaged the money, right?”

She smiled weakly. “Thanks Max.”

“Sure,” he sat down beside her in the dark. “Still, too bad this Varric didn’t turn up sooner,” He poked her in the ribs again, a bit harder. “And, too bad he isn’t the one you kissed, huh?”

“What? I didn’t—“

“Yeah, I saw. Wasn’t much of a kiss, really. You should work on that, Squirt.” He punched her lightly in the shoulder.

At least she’d thought it was a light punch.

Except now she seemed to be falling. 

Falling and darkness all around.

She screamed.

And bashed her nose into something hard. Someone was laughing.

Rosalind blinked and rubbed her nose. “What the. . .” she was in the library at Skyhold, sitting at a table with stacks of books all around her.

Dorian was laughing.

“Good morning, Inquisitor,” he greeted her with a grin. “Incidentally, you chin fell off your hand—“

“And I bashed my face into the book I was reading when I fell asleep. Yes, thank you Dorian,” Rosalind replied with a groan.

Her body was terribly stiff, and the hand in question was all pins and needles.

But she remembered now. Remembered dancing in her bare feet in her chamber to the deep base line of the Song of Autumn resonating through the stones of Skyhold. Remembered coming to the library in the wee hours of the night and pulling every book on folk-dance, music, magic and the Dalish that she could find, and pouring through them looking for an answer.

“Must be some riveting stuff, you’re reading,” Dorian offered, a twinkle in his eye. “Have you been here all night?”

“More or less,” Rosalind replied, rolling her shoulders and neck out.

“Well, in that case, let me be the first to tell you that Varric was looking for you. I ran into him in the main hall on my way here. I believe he was headed to your quarters.”

“Oh,” Rosalind nodded, suppressing a yawn. “Right. Okay.” Regretfully she looked at the stack of books that had proved to be of no help whatsoever. Solas was a mystery, and so was the damned song. She shook her head and headed downstairs to catch up with Varric.

As she crossed the main floor of the library tower, headed for the main hall, Rosalind’s steps slowed to a halt, stunned by what she saw.

Solas had set up his study here on the main floor of the tower, though he didn’t seem to be in residence now. But it wasn’t his desk or books that drew her attention.

It was the walls. He was painting a mural.

It looked like a mural about her.

She stared, her mouth hanging open. What was this elf up to now?

“Frostbite,” Varrice called suddenly from the doorway, “I see you’ve discovered our new artist in residence?”

Jerked out of her thoughts, Rosalind turned to meet him. “You knew about this?” she asked, gesturing at the wall. “When did he have time to do this?”

Varric shrugged. “Who knows. Then again, no one seems to sleep around here. The party in the pub raged until the wee hours of the morning, and as I was leaving I bumped into Curly, who was just getting up. Seems like you were up early too,” he scanned Rosalind’s appearance, “or never went to sleep.” He smirked, “What were you up to, Frostbite. Some illicit liaison, best conducted under cover of night?”

“I was doing some research in the library,” Rosalind replied.

Varric rolled his eyes. “Of course you were. No offence, Frostbite, but I’m going to leave nighttime trips to the library out when I write your biography. Anyway, that friends I told you about arrived about a half hour ago. Come on.”

Nodding her assent, Rosalind followed.

*

“Garrett Hawk is here? Now? Are you sure?” Cullen asked, feeling a sense of unease prickling along his spine.

“Do you doubt my agents, Commander?” Leliana asked softly. She had intercepted him before he’d found Cassandra, and insisted they speak immediately. Now they stood in her high tower office, while she relayed the information.

“No,” Cullen rubbed his forehead. “But, Maker’s breath. How. . . why. . .”

“Varric,” Leliana answered, tying a missive to a raven’s leg and setting the bird aflight out of one of the library tower’s windows. “It appears our storyteller knew where to find the Champion of Kirkwall all along.” She turned, walked over to her desk, and sat down before Cullen. “He contacted Hawke a couple of days ago, and the man himself appeared here this morning. As luck would have it, wherever Hawke was hiding must not have been far from here. Of course,” Leliana perused some papers on her desk idly, “the rogue thinks he’s entered Skyhold without being detected. He’s meeting with Lady Trevelyan and Varric now.”

“And who else besides you and I knows this?”

Leliana glanced up at Cullen, standing before her desk, with a small smile. “I suspect that Iron Bull is aware of his presence. The Qunari is much craftier than he lets on. And, given his unique abilities, undoubtedly Cole is aware. But you’re really asking if Cassandra knows, aren’t you?”

Cullen nodded.

“I don’t believe so. But she will likely know soon. Whatever Hawke and lady Trevelyan are meeting about will likely impact us all. I suspect it has to do with the grey wardens and that dark future the lady and Dorian saw. In any case, she will likely call a meeting of her advisors after meeting with Hawke. And then, everyone in Skyhold will know. Do you think we should warn Cassandra now, or keep the matter between us?” Leliana’s smile grew wider.

“Is that why you asked me here?” Cullen asked, taken aback a bit, “to participate in some kind of joke at lady Cassandra’s expense?”

“Of course not, Commander,” Leliana widened her eyes, a picture of sincerity. “I asked you here to inform you of a security breach. We are jointly responsible for the safety and security of Skyhold, are we not?”

Cullen nodded.

“Well, so I have done my duty. There is a breach in security, but I doubt very much that anyone is at risk.”

Again, Cullen nodded. “I’ll inform the Seeker,” he said. “I need to speak to her on an unrelated matter, in any case.”

Leliana’s smile grew wider and she shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said, turning back to the papers on her desk.

*

“Inquisitor,” Varric drawled as he led Rosalind down a short flight of stairs on the battlements, to a section still half in ruins that almost no one had cause to loiter in, “meet the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Though I don’t use that title much anymore,” A large red-headed man with startlingly black tattoos around his bright green eyes turned and gave Rosalind a cocky grin. “Something about being kicked out of Kirkwall made it seem a bit contradictory to continue to refer to myself as it’s Champion.” He shrugged, and if he minded that Kirkwall was no longer his home, it didn’t show.

Rosalind found an answering smile blossoming on her face without her even meaning to. Good nature seemed to bubble off of the rogue in waves. It was hard to believe that Varric would be his only friend. This man didn’t seem like he’d ever be wanting for company.

Hawke took two long confident strides and stood before them, punching Varric hard on the shoulder. “How are you, Varric?” He asked warmly.

Varric massaged his shoulder and pulled a face, “I was better, before this bruise you gave me.”

Hawke laughed. “And this is your fearless leader, is it?” He held out a hand, making an almost courtly bow, his eyes flashing wickedly beneath their inky tattoos. Rosalind felt her pulse quicken, in spite of herself, as she placed her palm in his. 

“My Lady,” he purred, bending over and brushing his lips over the skin of her hand. It sent a jolt of heat into her belly, and she licked her lips in spite of herself.

His grin grew wider, as though he knew exactly the reaction he was causing in her, and thought it very funny indeed.

Rosalind pulled her hand back, frowning slightly. Now that she thought about it, there was something ever-so-slightly off about Hawke. She couldn’t control how her body responded to him, but her mind was already beginning to catalogue everything she knew about him and place it in the context of what she was now seeing.

It didn’t fit. Something was wrong.

“So, shall we get to the point?” Varric asked, eyes darting between the two of them as though he were already writing a grand romance in his mind.

“All business all the time, huh Varric?” Hawke laughed. “Sure, why not.”

As Hawke took them through his information regarding the Grey Wardens and what he knew of Corypheus from his previous encounter, Rosalind watched him closely. He laughed almost too readily. Nothing was serious.

“So,” he concluded, “our best course of action is to meet up in Crestwood. I’ll introduce you to my contact in the Grey Wardens. He can tell you more. And maybe, with your help, I can finally do what I set out to do three years ago, and put this bastard Corypheus away for good.”

“Sorry,” Rosalind asked, startled. “Meet up in Crestwood? So, you don’t want to travel together?”

Hawke laughed again, and she was beginning to find his laugh to be a bit irritating. He was devilishly handsome, but the man thought he was about twice as funny as he actually was. “Stay here so that your Seeker can tie me to a chair and flog me? Well, to some men that might be appealing. But I’ve never been the submissive type! Besides,” and here, for the first time, his mood sobered slightly, “I’d rather avoid a run-in with the Knight-Captain, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Commander Rutherford?” she asked. She looked sidelong at Varric, remembering their conversation in the Tavern. “Because he ran you out of town.”

“Among other things,” Hawke sucked on his cheek for a moment. “Then again. . . maybe I would like a run in with him,” he flashed another grin and fingered the hilt of a short dagger sheathed at his side. Two more daggers rode high on his back, along with a bow and a quiver full of arrows.

“Come on, Hawke,” Varric patted Hawke’s arm, “Curly’s alright. A lot has happened. A lot has changed.”

“Right,” Hawke pulled a face. “Well, we have bigger problems in any case. But your leader is a mage, Varric. And she should know,” here he fixed Rosalind with his bright green eyes, almost feverish in their intensity, no laughter present now, “that this commander of hers may claim to have changed. But I know him. I watched him for over a decade. I heard what he said, and saw what an army of templars under his command did. And I was there the day he came for my sister.” He growled the last words, fingers wrapping around the dagger’s hilt again. “He can claim to have changed if he likes. But I know the truth. And I won’t forget so easily.”

Rosalind quaked inwardly, but drew her shoulders back and asked, in a steady voice. “What happened to your sister?”

“She was a mage in Kirkwall, Inquisitor. What happened to all of them?” He asked mildly, as though he was asking about the weather. “Every mage in Thedas knows.”

“They died,” Rosalind whispered.

“They did. Every last one of them. That circle fell to blood magic, while under siege from a templar army intent on performing the rite of annulment. Your commander’s army.”

“Be fair,” Varric interrupted. “He wasn’t the Kight-Commander then.”

“Fair point, my friend,” Hawke conceded, an ugly smirk on his face. “He was only second in command. Had been second in command for ten years, watching the decisions his commander made, and doing nothing to stop it. When the circle fell, those mages died. They all died. Those that weren’t killed by the templars fell to their own feeble attempts at blood magic, or fell to the abominations their desperate colleagues unwittingly created. Tell me, Inquisitor, how much do you think a man can change in a year?”

“I don’t know,” Rosalind replied hoarsly, a numb fear squeezing her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two posts in two weeks. I am on a roll! Hope you enjoy this chapter. I'll try to get another one up soon!


	16. The Barrier

“Commander, it is my professional opinion that you are still fit to command,” Cassandra said, her voice carrying a slight edge of exasperation to it. Admittedly, now may not have been the most opportune time to approach her and ask to be relieved of command, but Cullen had been trying to find a moment to speak to Cassandra all day. Having finally found it, he wasn’t going to waste it.

Still, Rosalind had called a war council meeting to be held in an hour, claiming that she had important information relayed to her from one of Varric’s contacts. It seemed obvious that Leliana’s information was correct. Hawke had visited Skyhold. Whether he was still here, Cullen didn’t know. And he didn’t care to know.

He was too exhausted to care about much of anything.

“Seeker,” Cullen protested, “you must reconsider.” The dreams wouldn't leave him. They weren't always dreams of Rosalind. Mercifully, many of the old dreams of Knight-Commander Meredith, and Ulrich still played out on a regular basis (and it was a grim situation when Cullen considered those old nightmares merciful) but Rosalind had become an all too frequent player in the nightly cast of torture he endured since Haven.

During the day, he avoided her. At night, he avoided sleeping. He was becoming short-tempered, irritable and felt as though he was losing control. And the arguments his mind constantly generated to justify taking lyrium were growing stronger.

“Replacing you is not necessary,” she replied curtly. “You are tired, and feeling the strain of the loss at Haven. To think this makes you in any way unique would be a mistake. Give yourself time, Commander. Lighten your duties for a few days, and I am confident you will be fine.” 

With that she returned to her ceaseless training, muttering “that lying little shit,” under her breath.

Cullen watched her for a moment, taken out of his own thoughts. He hadn’t considered the strain that their flight from Haven had placed on the other members of the Inquisition. But that wasn’t honourable. Cassandra had watched Cullen closely for months, and offered advice, assurances and her support when he needed it most. The least he could do was return the favour. 

Putting his own cares aside, Cullen asked “Are you alright?” 

“Yes,” Cassandra snapped, but she stopped, frowned looking down at the ground. “No,” she finally said, lowering her sword. “I suppose I'm not. The Inquisitor. . . Rosalind. . . found me confronting Varric. You can guess as well as I did who his contact is, can you not?”

Cullen nodded. He considered telling Cassandra that Leliana had warned him about Hawke’s arrival, but the murderous look in her eyes changed his mind. 

“Well, Lady Trevelyan found me confronting Varric about Hawke, as I said. I—I was acting unprofessionally.” 

Cullen raised an eyebrow at that. The silence stretched between them and a slight pink coloured Cassandra’s cheeks. She refused to meet Cullen’s gaze. After a moment she huffed out an exasperated sigh, and began to speak. “I. . . I attacked him,” she said. “She stepped between us, and broke up the fight. We were both behaving like children. She said as much. She was right. She even convinced Varric to apologize to me. The little shit almost sounded convincing. But. . .” Cassandra blew out her breath and massaged her shoulder. “We’ve lost so much time, Commander.” She looked at him now, and the agitation filling her eyes made his skin crawl. “I tracked down Varric over a year ago—a year ago—and asked him then if he knew where the Champion was, and he denied any knowledge. He has maintained that denial ever since. He lied to me, Commander. He lied to all of us. And now lady Trevelyan is defending him?”

“Is she?” Cullen asked wondering, not for the first time, what Varric had said to Rosalind. And more importantly, what Hawke had said. There was no love lost between the former Champion of Kirkwall and himself, and no reason to think Hawke would hold back when telling Rosalind exactly what he thought of Cullen.

Cassandra shook her head, sheathing her blade. Her shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. “No. Not really. She is being quite fair, under the circumstances.” She sighed, massaging her shoulder again. “I’m angry at Varric and at Rosalind, but I know I have only myself to blame.” She walked past Cullen and sat down heavily on a bench in the courtyard, and for the first time that he could remember, Cullen saw a weariness in her. It made him forget about his own torture and exhaustion. He walked over and sat beside her.

She shook her head in frustration, and gave Cullen a rueful smile. “I know what I am, Commander. Varric has been with us for over a year, and has refused to answer our questions. Rosalind has been with us for less than two months, and he has willingly offered information to her that he stubbornly withheld from us. I am not a fool, Commander. I know why. I am too brash. I pressed him too hard. Whereas she. . .”

“She inspired him,” Cullen finished.

“Yes,” Cassandra nodded miserably. “She does have that effect. I have only myself to blame for our lost time. But a year. . .” again he saw the agitation in her face, heard it in her voice. “We lost a year. I cost us a year. If I had treated Varric differently. . . perhaps the events of Haven would not have transpired at all.”

“You cannot possibly know that,” Cullen interrupted. “You cannot blame yourself for the events at Haven.” He thought of the way Rosalind had reminded him of the people he had saved, and eased his aching heart. “Your faith in the Inquisition is what held us together when we were nothing more than a handful of people. Cassandra, you did not cost us a year. Because of your brash, decisive action, the Inquisition was able to act the moment the Conclave exploded. Because of your willingness to admit your mistakes and make amends, Lady Trevelyan is with us and the Inquisition has a leader worthy of it. I do not claim to know Hawke well, but from what I do know, he is not the type to inspire.”

Cassandra frowned. “No, I suppose he is not. Still, these thoughts won’t leave me.” she said, sounding uncannily like Cullen’s own inner monologue. “And. . . I am ashamed that the Inquisitor saw me acting so childishly. We have not had an easy time becoming friends. I would hate to think I have impeded the progress we’ve made.”

Cullen nodded again. “I understand completely,” he said heavily, thinking of his own fumbling attempts to gain Rosalind’s trust and friendship back in Haven. None of it had made any difference. He was right back where he had begun, studiously avoiding her.

“Well, enough moping,” Cassandra said, standing up. “What’s done is done, and cannot be undone now. And, in truth, I would not want things differently. I must trust in the Maker. And I do. I believe He has sent us the leader we need.”

“As do I,” Cullen said, with conviction and an aching heart.

“On that subject,” Cassandra continued, fitting her shield to her arm and taking a couple of practice swings with her sword, “I think you should speak to lady Trevelyan about your situation. Do not mistake me,” she continued, still not looking his way, “I believe that after a couple days rest you will still be fit to command. But, we must prepare ourselves for the road ahead. The time may well come when you will not be capable of serving the Inquisition. She needs to know.”

Cullen’s mouth went dry at the thought, but he could see immediately that Cassandra was right. “Of course,” he managed to croak out.

Cassandra turned and studied him carefully. But whatever she saw there, she made no comment. Nodding in dismissal, she returned to massacring the practice dummies.

*

An hour later Cullen made his way to the war room, unsure what he would find there. He was late, on purpose, hoping to avoid any private meeting with Rosalind. But he need not have worried. As he approached the hallway to the war room, Leliana fell in step beside him, so that they would enter together. She gave him a sidelong glance and a little smirk. “This should be interesting, no?” she said.

He nodded in reply, keeping his face carefully neutral, which merely provoked a laugh from her.

They pushed open the doors to find Josephine and Rosalind both intently studying the war table and muttering to each other about the possibility of influencing some noble or other with regards to a Tevinter text Dorian wanted.

They looked up and Josephine smiled, “Ah, good, we are all here.”

“Sorry we’re late, Josie,” Leliana replied. 

Rosalind hadn’t yet looked up. She was frowning at something on the war table, lost in thought for a moment. Her eyebrows were drawn together in concentration, causing a small wrinkle to appear between them. Her hair had grown a bit, and she was trying to tuck it out of her eyes and behind one ear, though it wasn’t quite long enough and it kept gently falling back over her face. Unbidden thoughts of brushing her hair back rose in Cullen’s imagination, and he longed to smooth the wrinkle between her eyebrows with a soft kiss. He cursed himself and tried to push the thoughts and the painful longing out of his mind.

“Are we ready to begin?” Josephine prompted, and Rosalind raised her eyes, meeting Leliana’s. Cullen looked away before she could catch his eye, afraid she’d be able to read his foolish thoughts in his gaze.

“Of course,” Rosalind replied, and he could see her straighten in his peripheral vision. She was still trying to catch his eye, and Leliana was giving him a questioning look. He resigned himself to the fact that he couldn’t very well get through the whole meeting by staring vacantly at the wall, and met Rosalind’s gaze.

Satisfied that she had everyone’s attention, Rosalind began. As expected, she told them of her meeting with Hawke and Varric. Unexpectedly, she went on to speak of Hawke’s concerns regarding the grey wardens. “So,” she concluded, “I need to meet Hawke’s Warden friend in Crestwood, as soon as possible.”

Leliana nodded, “I will send Scout Harding and her associates out immediately to establish a camp there ahead of your arrival,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“And I will contact the Mayor of Crestwood to let him know of the Inquisition’s involvements there,” Josephine said. “Of course, secrecy is of the utmost importance. Fortunately, or rather, unfortunately, Crestwood is one of the many places that has sent us notice of rift activity in the area. So, I’m sure we can tell the Mayor that our appearance is merely to seal the rifts, nothing more.”

“Thank you, Ambassador,” Rosalind smiled, “who would have thought rift activity would come in handy?” she gazed at her left hand for a moment, before shaking herself. “Well,” she continued, “if there is nothing else?”

“No, Inquisitor,” Leliana said, hands held loosely behind her back.

“I don’t believe so,” Josephine said, rifling through the papers on her clip board. “No, nothing that requires your attention right now,” she finished.

“Then, I suppose we may adjourn.” 

Cullen turned to leave, hoping to be the first out the door when Rosalind called out, “Commander, if I may have a moment of your time?”

Cullen swallowed hard, but nodded. “Of course,” he said. 

Josephine hurried past him, already burying her nose in her paperwork again. Leliana paused as she went past to rest a hand on his arm briefly and give him a small smile. He had no time to wonder at that, though, for Rosalind was already coming around the war table to face him.

“There was a matter I wished to speak to you about as well.” He plunged on. Might as well get this over with, he thought.

“Oh?” Rosalind asked as the heavy door closed behind Leliana. He noticed that she was wearing new clothes. A soft woollen tunic with a wide belt and leather breaches underneath with knee-high boots. No robes. No armour. The outfit wasn’t particularly provocative, and yet his eyes were drawn to her waist, the swell of her hips. He forced those thoughts to the back of his mind, feeling his neck growing hot. “What was this matter?” She asked.

He took a deep breath, and braced himself. But he knew Cassandra was right. Rosalind needed to know this. “Templar's take lyrium. It's what grants them their unique abilities.” Cullen began, studying his hands which rested loosely on the pommel of his sword.

“I know, Commander,” Rosalind replied. Of course she knew. She was a circle mage, after all.

“Yes. . . well. . .” Cullen flexed his fingers, and plunged ahead. “I—I no longer take it.”

“I know that too,” Rosalind replied again, in a voice that sounded hollow. Steady, but hollow.

At that, Cullen looked up, surprised. Stunned would actually be more accurate.“Did Cassandra—“

“No, Commander,” she replied quickly, “I—I saw something. . . in the future. . . you were there and . . . well. . . you. . . you sort of told me.” Her face looked haunted now, eyes far away, staring at a future only she and Dorian had seen. “I didn’t know if anyone else knew. Cassandra did not betray you.”

Cullen started at those haunted eyes, wondering what she had seen. “You never indicated that. . .”

“No. It seemed private. I thought you'd tell me if I needed to know. Or if you wanted me to know. And. . . I—I try not to think about that future much.”

“Ah,” he nodded in understanding, feeling lighter now that the truth was out. “I—I asked Cassandra to watch over me. I never meant for any of this to interfere. I meant to tell you, Inquisitor. It. . . I could never find. . . the words. . . or the time.”

“Battling an arch demon and the corpse of a Tevinter magister does tend to fill up one's schedule, right?” Rosalind asked, with a ghost of a smile.

Cullen's mouth quirked into a grim, ironic smile and he huffed a sigh, closing his eyes. After a moment, he began to speak again. “I promised myself this would not interfere. And I promised that I would tell you as soon as I found a moment.”

She studied him with those black eyes for a long time before nodding slowly. And he couldn’t guess what she had been thinking, or what decision she had come to. “I believe you, Commander. May I ask why you no longer take it?”

Now it was Cullen’s turn to hesitate. 

“It’s dangerous, isn’t it, Commander?” she prompted, her eyes watching him closely, as she had in those first few weeks at Haven. 

“It is,” he confirmed. 

“Then why. . .” she trailed off, waiting. Watching.

“I. . .” he thought of the myriad of reasons why he wanted to snap the lyrium leash that bound him to the Templars. “After what happened in Kirkwall. . . I . . . I needed to leave the order. To distance myself from it as much as I could. This is a part of that.”

“What happened in Kirkwall, Commander?” Rosalind’s gaze had become hard, penetrating. He could not look away. She seemed tense, coiled like a spring, holding her breath. 

“I would rather not speak of it,” Cullen said in a rush, desperately. “In any case, there was something you wanted to discuss?” He asked, hoping to change the subject.

She raised her chin slightly, still pinning him with those eyes. The air was full of a buzzing and he wasn’t sure if it was light-headedness from exhaustion, or Rosalind’s magic filling the too-small space. “Actually,” she said carefully, weighing each word, “I wanted to discuss Kirkwall.”

Cullen closed his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck, remembering ten years of Hawke flouting the law, and parading his mage companions under the Templar’s noses. Remembering Hawke’s recklessness. Remembering Merrill. Remembering Anders. Hawke collected dangerous friends the way others collected rare gems. The buzzing in the room grew louder, and he was sure now that it was exhaustion. It felt hot and stuffy. He needed to get out. Get away from this conversation, and the memories it called up. “My lady,” he said, trying to pull the frayed edges of his nerves together, “I would rather not. . .”

“Commander,” she interrupted him, her voice taking on a slight edge. “Please,” she held his gaze, “I need to know. What happened?”

“Why ask me?” Cullen felt his temper fraying. He braced his hands on the war table, leaning over it and holding himself steady. “Everyone in Thedas knows of the fall of Kirkwall’s circle. What more is there to say?”

“There’s you’re version,” she replied calmly.

“To counter Hawke’s version?” Cullen spat out. “Is that why you’re here, lady?” He whispered, incredulous as he put the pieces together. “Hawke told you something about me, and you want me to deny his claims, or defend myself?”

“He took it upon himself to warn me about you,” she confirmed, her voice carefully neutral. She didn’t shy away from the truth. But when had she shied away from painful truths? 

“I bet he did,” Cullen couldn’t help the snarl that entered his voice at that. His head hurt. If it came to that, his whole body hurt. 

“So, I would like to hear your version of events, yes,” she replied, still holding his gaze.

The truth hurt more than Cullen expected. He knew she didn’t love him. Didn’t care for him the way he cared for her. But he thought she trusted him. Yet here she was, seeking his side of a story so she could decide who to believe. Here she was, doubting him and asking him to prove himself, because of the warnings of a virtual stranger to her.

It hurt. It shouldn’t, but it did. A dull cavernous ache filled his chest, to add to the pain in his head, and the shaking of his limbs. And the worst of it was, he knew she was right to distrust him. The knight-captain of Kirkwall was not a man to be trusted.

“Believe Hawke,” he whispered, his head sagging between his shoulder blades.

Her eyes widened and she bit her lip. “He. . . he blamed you for his sister’s death, Commander. Surely--”

“Believe him,” Cullen roared, pushing away from the table and spinning to face her. Frustration fatigue and pain transforming to anger. Driving him on. 

She took an involuntary step back, and he saw the barrier she cast settle between them. Separating them.

His guts twisted violently in self-loathing. He deserved that, he thought. He deserved her fear. Her mistrust. He was just another templar to her. He was that man. Had been that man. Perhaps he would always be that man. How could his refusal to take lyrium change anything? 

Her face wore that cursed mask of neutrality again, and silence stretched out between them. A weighted silence, heavy with the echo of his roar, and the buzzing of exhaustion. He dared not say anything else. He dared not move, afraid he would scare her away, or provoke her into responding. She did not trust him, and he could not trust himself.

After a moment, she dropped the barrier and cocked her head to one side, studying him carefully. Again, he felt like a puzzle she was painstakingly putting together. 

“I see,” she finally said. Though what she saw, he couldn’t begin to guess

And then she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should have another update in a week or so, but then life gets busy again and it might be a while before the next update. Thanks to those who've subscribed for sticking with me on this, and I'm sorry for the random updating schedule. And thank you everyone who took time to kudos or comment on the work. It's greatly appreciated and helps motivate me to find time to write!


	17. Investigating the Past

“If this is a council, shouldn’t the commander and the lady Ambassador be here?” Cassandra asked briskly.

“And if it’s a council, why am I and the Seeker here?” Varric drawled, slumping in a chair and placing his feet on the war table.

Cassandra glowered at him. Varric merely smiled, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Rosalind rubbed at her aching temples, and reconsidered her decision to speak to all of them together. For two days she had been pouring over the books in the library when she should have been preparing for Crestwood. For two days she had requested and requisitioned every document she could find on lyrium addiction, Krikwall and Kinloch Hold. For two days, she had done little but read. And desperately try to hold the ever-tightening band of fear around her chest at bay.

And if Cassandra and Varric were intent on having a rematch to settle the fight she had broken up a few days ago, she was so irritated with both that she just might let them. Maybe they’d knock some sense into each other!

“Why don’t you tell us why we are here, Inquisitor,” Leliana broke in.

Rosalind nodded, taking a deep breath. “I’ve asked the three of you here because you all know the Commander. . .”

“Curly?” Varric asked. “Is this because of Hawke?”

Rosalind nodded again. 

“Oh for goodness sake,” Cassandra threw her hands up in the air. 

“Oh Frostbite,” Varric stood up, “Hawke has. . . he’s. . . his life hasn’t been easy. And. . . and he has a specific view of things. But. . .”

“Yes, I can see that, Varric.” Rosalind cut in. “Nonetheless, he warned me that Commander was not to be trusted around mages, and when I approached Cullen about this, he. . . he would not deny it.”

Leliana’s eyes widened.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra said in her usual clipped tones, hands on her hips, “the Commander is under a tremendous amount of strain right now owing to. . .” she trailed off, eyes darting to the other two people in the room, confirming something that Rosalind had already suspected. Cullen had not trusted the other members of the Inquisition with the news that he was no longer taking lyrium. 

“Yes, I know,” she said softly, resting a hand on Cassandra’s arm and trying to convey without speaking it, that she knew he was suffering from lyrium withdrawal. Leliana arched an eyebrow mildly, confirming another suspicion of Rosalind’s. The spymaster was obviously well aware of the situation, regardless of whatever secrets Cullen might think he had from her.

“That’s why I’ve called you here, in fact,” Rosalind went on. “In my estimation, the Commander could use a few days of lighter duties, and a few nights of restful sleep. However, I suspect a proud man like Commander Rutherford would not take kindly to such a direct suggestion.”

“No,” Cassandra affirmed, rolling her eyes, “he would not.” 

Ah, Rosalind thought, so such a suggestion has already been made. “Right,” she continued. “So, what can we do? Varric, could you speak to Adan and ask him for a sleeping draught for insomnia? Perhaps you could say it’s for yourself?”

Varric nodded.

“Make sure it’s one that grants a dreamless sleep,” she said, remembering the research she had done on the effects of lyrium withdrawal. “That’s important.”

Varric raised his eyebrows. “Well, then I couldn’t very well ask for it for myself, as I don’t dream.”

“Right, I forgot. Well, say it’s for me, then?”

Varric smiled, “you can trust me to come up with a compelling lie, my lady.”

“Thank you. And we need to come up with some way to ensure he takes it, which is why Cole is here.”

Cole melted out of the shadows, like the washing away of a sandcastle in reverse. 

“Maker,” gasped Varric, and Cassandra and even Leliana jumped. Even Rosalind felt startled, and she’d known he was here somewhere. Over the past few weeks, Rosalind had come to trust Cole a great deal, but she still found his presence unsettling.

“Cole, if Varric gets you this draught, could you find a way to make sure the Commander takes a dose one night in every five? No more than that. It isn’t safe, otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but. . .” Cole tilted his head to the side, listening to voices only he could hear. “Memories, demons, not that man anymore. . . but. . . but he’s afraid of me.”

“I know,” Rosalind replied gently. “He’s afraid of me, too. And probably for the same reason.” We both remind him of the circle, and abominations, she thought.

Cole frowned and opened his mouth to say something when Varric laid a hand on Cole’s shoulder, “Kid, stop. Some stories have to write themselves, okay?”

Cole turned his glassy-eyed gaze to Varric’s and studied him a moment. “Yes,” he finally said.

Rosalind watched the exchange in puzzlement. “Okay,” she said finally, when it seemed nothing more would be said. “Cole, could you find a way to do this without him knowing you were there? So that you wouldn’t frighten him?”

Cole brightened, “Yes. I’d like to help, if I can.”

“A dreamless sleep will help, Cole.” 

“Yes,” Cole nodded. 

Rosalind nodded. “Thank you, Cole. You may go now, if you wish.” The boy nodded and faded from view. “Cassandra, Leliana, I’d like your help in lightening the Commander’s duties for a couple of days. I know everyone is very busy, but if you could take on a bit more for a day or two, I’ll ensure you both get a rest yourselves as soon as I return from Crestwood.”

Cassandra nodded.

“Of course,” Leliana smiled. “Cullen already takes on too many tasks. He needs to learn to delegate. It will be a simple matter to ensure a few missives don’t arrive on his desk for a couple of days.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, Inquisitor. But, that isn’t the only reason we are all here, is it?” 

Rosalind hesitated. But nothing got past Leliana. “No,” she said finally.

“As you said, we are here because we know the Commander.”

“Yes,” Rosalind replied. She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of the countless pages she had poured over in the last two days looking for the symptoms of lyrium withdrawal. And looking for information on Kirkwall. . . and Kinloch hold.

“You learned that I was among those who found the Commander at Kinloch hold,” Leliana continued, as though she were reading Rosalind’s mind. “And Varric knew him in Kirkwall. And Cassandra recruited him into the Inquisition. Clearly, you have not taken Hawke’s words to heart. Your actions safeguarding the Commander’s health demonstrate that. Still you have not entirely dismissed Hawke’s words either, No?”

“You’re correct,” Rosalind said, holding Leliana’s gaze. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, and plunged ahead. “The Commander served in two circles in his career as a templar, and both those circles fell. Now, a hero, the Champion of Kirkwall, has explicitly warned me about the Commander, claims he is responsible for his sister’s death, and that he cannot be trusted around mages.

“I know that mages themselves are also not trustworthy,” Rosalind continued, “but unfortunately we have a fair number of them in our midst now, and not enough templars to. . . to manage them,” she concluded lamely. “Commander Rutherford has made no secret of his fear and distrust of mages. And I’m not saying he’s wrong. There are good reasons to fear magic and mages. Nevertheless, I need to know if the commander of our forces is a man who is likely to provoke a mage to do something stupid. I would be a fool not to consider this.” She finished, forcing herself to meet each person’s gaze in turn.

“You would be a fool to waste any time considering what Hawke has to say,” Cassandra scoffed.

“Says the woman who spent the better part of three years trying to find him,” Varric drawled.

“Please,” Rosalind broke in before the two got going again, “Cullen claims to be a different man, to no longer be a templar. But two circles fell? How? Why? And did he change so much in a year?”

“Speaking as someone who changed more in one night spent in a dark and cold prison cell, changing over a year seems eminently possible,” Leliana replied, her face impassive, showing none of the irritation Cassandra displayed. 

Rosalind couldn’t help the way her eyebrows raised and her mouth fell open.

Leliana laughed. “So, in your research you did not stumble across my criminal past, Inquisitor? Remind me to tell you about it some time over a drink.”

“I—I will,” Rosalind stuttered. “So you think he is not the same man he was in Kirkwall? In Kinloch Hold” she prompted torn between fear and hope.

Leliana shrugged delicately, “I did not say that. Only the Commander himself knows his own heart. I merely said that I know first hand such change is possible. As to your second question, about Kirkwall and Kinloch hold, you cannot compare the two. In effect, you are asking the wrong question.”

“Why?”

“Because, from what I can discern, Kinloch Hold is where he changed the first time, my lady. He was not the same man in Kinloch Hold that he became in Kirkwall. And the man he was in Kirkwall was a direct result of what happened in Kinloch hold.”

“What happened?” Rosalind whispered, the band of fear around her chest tightening.

“As to that, you must ask the Commander himself.”

“I did,” Rosalind raked her hands through her hair in frustration. “He would not speak of it.”

“I’m sorry, my lady. I will not share such a personal matter with you without the Commander’s leave.”

Rosalind sighed. But she understood. “Thank you, Leliana, for what you have been able to share.”

The woman inclined her head, smiling slightly. “Of course,” she replied in her melodious voice.

“Which, I suppose, means Curly’s story falls to me next?” Varric asked, sitting back in his chair and resting his heels on the war table again. Cassandra audibly growled. Varric pretended not to notice. “It’s a long tale,” he began, warming up to his task, “the full telling of which would require a true master.”

“Yes,” Rosalind cut him off, before he could really get going, “it did. And you told it. In ‘Tales of the Champion’. Which I read. . . in it’s entirety.”

“Ah. . . right,” Varric sighed. “My fame precedes me, I suppose.”

“But I do have questions.”

“Fire away, Forstbite.”

“In the book you said. . . “ she took a breath, trying to breathe around the tightness in her chest that simply wouldn’t go away, “you said the Knight-Captain once argued that all mages should be chained?”

“Oh. . . ah. . . “ Varric lowered his hands from his head at that. They fell limply at his sides. “Yeah, he did. But—“

“And,” Rosalind plunged ahead, before all courage left her. “He also waited until Hawke was in the deep roads, and had been missing for three weeks, before taking Bethany in to the circle?”

“Yes,” Varric admitted after a pause. He frowned, before rushing on to say, “But he only did that so he wouldn’t have to deal with Hawke’s rage. Really, that was to avoid any possible bloodshed, I’d say. If anything, that’s a mark in his favour.” He gave a small grin.

Rosalind bit her lip as she put the pieces together. “I see,” she said slowly, the band of fear tightening painfully. But she wouldn’t avoid this. She would face it head on. “So, he waited until one child was lost, presumed dead, and then descended upon the house of refugees in order to take their only remaining child into captivity?”

“Well, sure when you put it that way it sounds. . . not good. . . but--” Rosalind waited, but Varric fell silent, apparently at a loss for what to say next.

“And he turned a blind eye to Knight-Commander Meredith’s abuse of power for years?”

“Look, Frostbite, he fought with us in the end,” Varric said, sitting forward in his chair and lowering his feet from the table, a note of desperation in his voice. “He turned against Meredith and fought with us.”

“And then drove Hawke out of town?” Rosalind fought to keep the tremor out of her voice. She didn’t want to believe what she had read. Didn’t want to live in fear anymore. But the facts were becoming indisputable.

“Well. . . yeah. But--”

“I see,” she said in a whisper, the invisible band around her chest pulling painfully tight. So tight it almost hurt to breathe.

“No, Frostbite, you don’t see,” Varric snapped impatiently, slapping his hand on the war table. “At least not with that last part. I really do think siding with us against Meredith marked a change for Curly. Truly. Hawke. . . Hawke has a certain perspective on things,” he continued, massaging his brow wearily. “And I’m not saying he’s wrong to be angry. Curly was no friend of his when he lived in Kirkwall. And yeah, maybe the way Bethany was taken to the circle lacked some tact. But, as for running Hawke out of town, well, you have to understand.”

“Understand what?” 

“Frostbite, everyone knew the circle had fallen to blood magic. Everyone knew Hawke had fought for years to defend mages. Everyone knew he was best buds with Anders. And. . . and everyone knew what Anders had done. Everyone knew Hawke had allowed Anders to live.”

“Why did Hawke do that, Varric?” Rosalind couldn’t help but ask, even though it had little bearing on the matter at hand.

“Hell, Frostbite. You read the story.” Varric ran a hand over his face, scratching against his day-old stubble. “Hawke lost every member of his family in Kirkwall. I don’t think he had it in him to lose someone else he cared about. He certainly didn’t have it in him to kill them. Meredith gave him an impossible choice. There was no way to win.”

Rosalind nodded, Varric’s tale confirming what she’d long thought about Hawke. The man was broken inside, and holding it together with bad humour and will-power alone.

“Well,” Varric continued, “the Knight-captain couldn’t very well let Hawke remain and hope to keep any kind of order in Kirkwall, could he? Not with those rumours spreading about Hawke’s involvement in, well, in everything. Hawke was. . . well, his presence was a complication. And Kirkwall had had its fill of complications. I don’t think Cullen wanted to drive Hawke out. He didn’t come at him with a mob and torches or anything. He, he just told Hawke the way things were. The way they appeared to the citizens.”

“Oh,” Rosalind replied quietly, a small glimmer of hope taking hold. 

“And after Hawke left, well he didn’t see how things were. Curly helped Aveline rebuild that city. He taught the templars to find purpose in serving the people. He maintained order. And the people, they were grateful . . hell, Frostbite, that city was my home. I’m grateful to him too. That’s why I stayed to help the Inquisition, even though my initiation was less than welcoming,” he glared at Cassandra again. “When I saw Curly here, well, I thought that if he thought this was the right place to be to try and fix the mess the world’s in right now, then it must be.”

“Thank you, Varric,” Rosalind smiled softly, the tight band around her chest easing ever so slightly. She took another deep breath, and found breathing a little bit easier. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to Cassandra alone.”

“Of course,” Leliana replied, her face deceptively impassive.

Varric didn’t even try to hide his open curiosity, his eyes darting between Rosalind’s and Cassandra’s. But Leliana firmly placed a hand on his back and steered him out of the war room.

Cassandra crossed her arms and eyed Rosalind uneasily. She looked as though she were preparing for battle. Rosalind fought to keep her own posture and demeanour as open as possible, and tried hard to pitch her voice neutrally. “The commander spoke to me about his decision not to take lyrium,” she said.

“Yes, I asked him to. I’m glad he did.” Cassandra’s voice was also carefully neutral, which was unusual for her.

“I understand you support him in this.”

“Yes.”

“And you are the reason he joined the Inquisition to lead its forces?”

“I approached him in Kirkwall, yes.”

And now comes the hard question, Rosalind thought. “Do you agree with Varric, Cassandra? Do you believe the Commander has changed? That he is not the same man he was when he was the knight-captain?”

Cassandra huffed out an exasperated breath. “I do, my lady, obviously. Or I would not have invited him to join us.”

“And yet, Cassandra, it is undeniable that the commander spent his career as a templar in two circles. And that both circles fell to blood magic.” She held her emotions back, speaking dispassionately, as though commenting on the weather.

“My lady,” Cassandra sighed, dropping her folded arms and resting her hands on her hips, “there is much you need to consider.”

“Such as the red lyrium present in Kirkwall? And the fact that the city is saturated in the blood of centuries of slaves, rendering mages who live there more susceptible to the call of blood magic?” Rosalind asked.

Cassandra’s mouth quirked into the ghost of a smile. “I forget, you are a scholar. Yes, those are some of the extenuating circumstances I was thinking of.”

“Well, you should know I am considering them,” Rosalind replied, still keeping her voice carefully neutral. “But I cannot ignore the other factors here. How much can one man change in a year?” She repeated the question Hawke had asked her. The questions that had been haunting her for two days.

“My lady, the Commander has changed a great deal even in the short time I have known him. And he is capable of much more. I believe he can succeed to break the lyrium leash and lead a normal life free of the circle.”

“Why?”

“He is strong,” Cassandra continued, her voice rising. Not a shout, but much louder than normal conversation. No longer neutral at all. “Do you know what lyrium does to a templar?”

“I have some idea,” Rosalind said, thinking of Martin. Thinking of the way the joy, love and empathy her older brother had once had in abundance slowly faded like the colours fade from a chalk painting in the rain. Every draught of lyrium he took rendered him, somehow, less feeling. Less human. Until one day he didn’t think twice before raising his sword against his own sister.

“It increases stamina and strength, and gives them unique abilities, but at a cost,” Cassandra continued, “It dulls emotions, and makes sympathy and empathy all but impossible. And yet, when I met Cullen, after over two decades as a templar, he still had the ability to care. Do you understand? That is unique, my lady.”

“Yes,” Rosalind responded thoughtfully, the spark of hope taking hold, and roaring into a small fire inside her. This new hope frightened her almost as much as the fear. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“I believe in him if only because I must,” Cassandra continued a fierce and frighteningly intense faith suffusing her features. A faith like Mother Giselle’s faith. Like Maxwell’s faith. “I must believe that the great injustice the Chantry has brought to bear on the leagues of templars who have nobly served can be corrected to some degree. I must believe someone can snap the lyrium leash.”

“But you don’t know,” Rosalind protested, still afraid to hope.

“Sometimes,” Cassandra replied serenely, “It is our faith, and not the facts, that change the world.”

*

Hours later, as she packed her bags and readied to journey to Crestwood, Rosalind turned Cassandra’s words over in her mind.

She wanted to believe her. She yearned to believer her, with an ache in her chest that was almost physical. She wanted to believe the Commander was not the same man as the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall. She didn’t know why it should matter to her so much, but it did.

“Well, I’m only concerned for the safety of the mages in our organization,” she told herself, but something about that rational didn’t strike her as entirely genuine. She tried to figure out the truth, but couldn’t. She couldn’t see why she should care so deeply.

Still, a part of her thought it didn’t matter much what she believed anymore. Leliana and Varric had no objection to Cullen as the Commander of the Inquistion forces, and both had certainly had the opportunity to see him at his worst. The mages of the Inquisition were likely safe.

And yet, Cullen had not defended himself when Rosalind asked. Perhaps it was as simple as his not desiring her trust. Perhaps he wanted to drive her away. She remembered again the way he had stiffened at her kiss. Whatever Cullen’s stance was on mages in general, he was definitely wary of her.

“Perhaps he knows about Ostwick,” she whispered to herself, her mind slipping back to a memory of a storm in July that brought a city to a standstill.

And the power surging though her veins that brought the storm to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this! It might be a little while before I can post again. Thanks again for all your kudos and comments. When I can write next, it's off to Crestwood!!


	18. Crestwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Rosalind-exclusive POV chapter. Next chapter will have more Cullen POV.

She had been packed for the better part of an hour, but still she hesitated. Finding little ways to prolong the inevitable. Finally, disgusted with herself, Rosalind surveyed her packed bags and heaved a sigh. No more wasting time, she thought to herself, talk to him now!

And with that, she determinedly strode out of her quarters and headed for the stables.

She found him leaning against the barn wall, whittling a toy knight out of a piece of wood.

Blackwall raised an eyebrow at Rosalind's sudden appearance, but didn't say anything. He looked weary, and older than she remembered. As he studied her, she felt a wave a guilt settle over her shoulders. She hadn’t spoken to him, not really, since Haven. 

Acting before thought, she approached him. “Blackwall, do. . . do you have a moment?”

“Of course, my lady,” Blackwall replied, pushing off from the wall and turning to face her.

“I’m mounting an expedition to Crestwood in the morning, to follow up on a lead Varric’s found. It has to do with Grey Wardens. I was hoping you’d be willing to come along. Lend your expertise?”

“Of course, my lady,” Blackwall replied again, in nearly the same voice.

“I. . .” Rosalind bit her lip, remembering the haggard anguish on the man's face as he had closed and barred the doors of Haven, locking her out. “I also wanted to thank you, and . . . and to apologize for what I put you through. In Haven. I had no right to bind you with that oath, even if there was great need.”

Blackwall's face hardened, his jaw setting against what appeared to be a rising tide of great emotion. “You had every right, my lady. You are, after all, in charge.”

The words were short, and there was a slight edge of controlled anger to them. Rosalind bowed her head, accepting it. She deserved no less from him, and was grateful that he wasn't yelling and cursing her name. 

“I suppose I am in charge now,” she said softly, feeling again the terror of the weight of that responsibility, “but I wasn't in charge then. It. . . it showed great faith in me to do what you did. And. . . I won't forget it, ser. I won't forget that you sacrificed your own honour based on nothing other than my request. Thank you. I hope that I'm worthy of it.”

“You need to understand something, Inquisitor,” Blackwall growled, clenching the toy knight so tightly in his fist Rosalind was sure it would splinter. “I'm not one to back down from a fight. I gave you my word, and I kept it. But when Corypheus comes to Skyhold, I swear I'll take that Bastard down. Even if I have to die to do it. And until that day, I will follow you. I will do what you ask, no matter how hard, without hesitation. That's the vow I made when you stumbled out of a blizzard and returned to us. And I will not be foresworn, my lady.”

“I understand. And. . . I'm grateful for your support, Blackwall,” she said as steadily as she could, refusing to flinch before his thunderous gaze.

He glowered for several moments, but then his expression softened slightly. “I know, my lady. These are dark times, and no man can know how he might be tested. Still, there is hope.” And he gave her a look of such naked worship as he said that that Rosalind was shaken to her core. She did flinch then, looking away.

It's too much. Too much. Don't they know I'm a mage? She thought, looking anywhere but Blackwall's face. “Well. . . then. . . until tomorrow. . . I'll take my leave,” she said awkwardly, turning to go.

“Are you what they claim you are, Lady Trevelyan?” Blackwall called out, halting Rosalind in her tracks.

“What?” she asked, turning.

“Andraste's chosen. The people flock to your banner. They believe in you. You give them hope. Are you? Just tell me honestly.”

“No,” she replied abruptly, but there was a niggling doubt in that reply as she remembered Maxwell’s words from her dream. “Andraste uses her Herald hard.” She ran her hand through her hair in exasperation, shoving that thought ruthlessly aside before she could seriously entertain it. If she did, she might go mad.

He sighed deeply, looking past her at some memory Rosalind could only guess at. “Does it even matter?” he asked, but he didn't seem to expect an answer. His eyes returned to hers. “Don't you know what you are to them?” he gestured with a thumb to Skyhold in general. “Without you they'd be consumed by despair. We all would. They need you to be Andraste's Herald. It gives us. . . them. . . hope. The truth doesn't matter.”

Rosalind's mouth went dry. “Doesn't it?” she asked, searching Blackwall's face. “I—If everyone's wrong. . . if their pinning hope on just. . .” a mage. A monster. “a girl. . . just nobody. . . doesn't that matter, Blackwall?”

“Where else can we find hope, Lady? Without hope, we cannot win this. The people have to believe they can overcome this monster. They have to believe in you. Even if it isn't true. It's given us all a fighting chance.” He turned, heading past her and into the barn. “And after what happened at Haven, no one would say you were a nobody.” he added, before the darkness enveloped him.

*

The power surged along her arm, feeling, as it always did, as though she was literally about to be pulled apart. She gritted her teeth and fought against the deeply rooted instinct to pull back, holding her left hand aloft, palm open, towards the rift. As Solas had taught her to do so many weeks before. The fingers of her right hand tightened around her staff which she planted in the ground for stability, widening her stance and bracing for the final push. 

As the edges of reality slammed back together with a thunderous roar, a shock wave rode the length of the link back to her hand, arching like lightening. When it hit her palm, she staggered under the weight of it, blinding white pain pulsing in both wrists, along her veins, as she sought to ground the magic through her own body. Through her staff. Anchoring it safely in the wet earth below.

She sagged for a moment, feeling utterly exhausted. Utterly drained. They had ridden all night to get to Crestwood in time to meet Hawke’s friend, and had arrived to an emergency. The mayor had not indicated just how bad things were in his letter to Josephine petitioning for help.

Behind her, Rosalind heard a low whistle. “So, that’s how it’s done?” Hawke asked quietly.

“Yes, that’s pretty much it,” Rosalind huffed once she’d regained her balance, slinging her staff onto her back. 

“Seen one rift, you’ve seen them all,” he quipped, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, the lake added an interesting twist to this one, right Frostbite?” Varric called out, running up from the rear, where he had been picking off wisps with his crossbow.

“Yes that was. . . unusual,” Blackwall joined in. “I wonder what the mayor will have to say about all of this.”

“I suppose we should go find out,” Rosalind said, thoughtfully. The members of her group turned, and headed out of the wet, muddy and miserable dried lake-bed, and back to Crestwood to deal with what lay ahead.

As they walked Rosalind fell to the rear, lost in her own thoughts. She wondered how long it would be before she could sleep properly again. Wondered if she’d slept properly at all since waking in a dungeon in Haven. It was a few moments before she realized that Hawke was walking along beside her. He flashed her one of his wickedly handsome grins. “Do you know how it works?” he asked, wiggling his left hand before her.

Her pace slowed, and she examined her own left hand. “I. . . sort of. There’s really no research on it but, but I’m learning more about it all the time. It,” she sighed in frustrating, pushing her hand through her too-long hair, “it acts a bit like a lightening rod. The rifts in the veil allow the fade in and it seems to be seeking the earth, the way lightening does. The anchor attracts it, and then I can use the anchor to pull the veil back together, and ground the fade that managed to seep in.” She sighed, “I’m afraid I’m not explaining this well. It’s like. . . it’s like an explosion in reverse.”

“Well,” Hawke wiggled his eyebrows, “that all seems pretty straight-forward.” 

Rosalind laughed, “Yes. . . well. . . There are a few mages studying rift magic. I’m trying to find one to invite to Skyhold to help me untangle all this. But. . . but they keep dying or disappearing. Studying rift magic is hazardous.”

Hawke nodded. “May I?” he asked, gesturing at her left hand.

Rosalind assented, and both of them stopped walking. Hawke reached down and cradled the back of her left hand gently in his right, tracing the anchor delicately with his left, studying it. He didn’t look appalled or horrified, as so many did when they beheld the anchor for the first time. He didn’t look like a scholar, as Solas, the only other person save for herself who had looked intently at the anchor, did. He just looked curious.

And Rosalind felt something ease around her heart. She hadn’t known how much the anchor’s very existence had altered her thoughts about herself until she saw someone tracing it softly in her palm with a touch that bore none of the cold professionalism of a healer’s or a scholar’s. A touch that didn’t tremble with revulsion. Hawke’s rough fingers gently traced the outline of the anchor, softly tickling her palm as he did so.

Unexpectedly, she found herself wondering what it would be like to have those fingers trace other parts of her body. Startled, she pushed those thoughts away before they might show on her face, schooling her features into the carefully neutral mask she’d worn most of her life.

His gaze flickered up to hers, holding her own. He was close. So close she could see the flecks of gold deep in his emerald green eyes. He arched an eyebrow as though her neutral expression wasn’t fooling him at all. “And does it hurt every time?” he asked in a low voice.

Rosalind hesitated. But Hawke’s eyes were still steady and his palm was warm against the back of her hand. 

She bit her lip, and hesitated. “Not always so much,” she said, finally. “It depends on how tired I am.”

“But you haven’t told them.” It wasn’t a question.

“No. I. . .”

“Hey, come on you two. I’d like to make camp before nightfall, for a change,” Varric hollered. “Besides, looks like the two of you could use a tent.”

Rosalind jerked away from Hawke, yanking her hand back, and feeling a hot blush rush to her cheeks.

Hawke seemed unconcerned. His eyes danced as he looked at her, and he gave a wide lazy grin. Not taking his eyes off her, he called out, “Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Varric. Not everything is a cheap romance novel. It only seems that way because you’re having writers block. Or is it some other dry spell you’re suffering from?”

Despite herself, Rosalind laughed. Sera, too, gave a whoop of laughter and poke Varric in the ribs. Varric rolled his eyes as Rosalind and Hawke sped up to catch their waiting comrades. 

“Forgive me for not wanting to set a tent up in the dark. Again!” Varric grumbled. He gave Rosalind a long searching look, and she could feel her blush creeping down her neck and to the tips of her ears under his gaze. 

*

Despite Varric’s worries, they made it to camp well before nightfall, probably in no little part because their attempts to confront the mayor of Crestwood came to nothing. The man had fled, leaving a gut-wrenching confessional behind. From what she could see, the mayor of Crestwood had had a terrible choice to make, and he had made it.

Sera was incensed with rage. And Rosalind understood why. The man had taken matters into his own hands and killed hundred of innocent people in order to stop the spread of the darkspawn. To save hundreds of people over here, hundreds more had to die over there. 

It was the sort of choice she was forced to make daily at the war table.

It was the sort of choice where there was no way to win.

Could he have done things better, she thought as her company sat around the fire later that evening. Yes, undoubtedly he could have. He could have held a council, consulted the people, made more of an effort to separate the tainted from those who were still healthy and whole. But maybe there hadn’t been time. 

Maybe . . . if she had come to Crestwood sooner and closed the rift when it first opened . . . maybe things would be different.

Maybe.

But there were rifts everywhere, and she had only one means of closing them. She was just one person, and run ragged as it was trying to deal with everything before here.

How many more stories like Crestwood would there be before this was over?

“You’ll try to track the blighter down, yeh?” Sera broke the silence. There was no question of whom she was referring to. “And give ‘em what he deserves?”

Rosalind looked up from the fire, and met the elf’s thunderous gaze. “I. . . I’ll try,” she said softly.

“Try?” Sera fumed. “Try ain’t good enough, is it? Yeh? What good is try to the people he killed?”

“I don’t know,” Rosalind said miserably.

“You don’t know? What d’ya mean you don’t know? It ain’t complicated, is it? You find the bugger, and you hang’em. Easy.”

“It’s not that simple,” Blackwall broke in from the other side of the fire, and everyone turned in surprise. It was rare for him to say much of anything, ever. Unheard of for him to join in a conversation.

“Oh,” Sera snapped, “and why not?”

“I’m not defending him, Sera,” Blackwall said slowly. “But everyone deserves a chance to explain themselves. The man made a difficult decision. And maybe it was a mistake. But that doesn’t make hanging him right.”

“Bullshit,” Sera spat. “Hangings what you do to murderers, yeah?”

“With a second chance, people can change,” Blackwall said again, his eyes meeting Rosalind’s, and there was a deep sorrow there. “Even murderers.”

“Yer talkin garbage, you are!” Sera snapped. “We need to find this guy. Now.”

“Sera,” Rosalind began, hearing the sharpness in her own voice. She took a deep breath and started again, “I will try to find him. I will investigate the situation and I’ll do everything I can to see justice is served, okay?”

“No,” Sera retorted. “That’s just something rich wankers say when they want you to bugger off, yeh? It’s a fancy way of sayin’ you’re gonna do bugger all, right?”

Rosalind could feel the anger under her skin. “No it isn’t, but I’m also not going to promise to hang a man before I do everything I can to get the full story.”

“Bullshit,” Sera spat again. “We know the story. And if you won’t hang the bugger, I will,” and with that, she stormed off. Rosalind watched her go a moment before putting down her mug of tea to follow.

“I’ll go, Frostbite. She won’t have gone far,” Varric said gently, getting to his feet and following the elf into the woods. “She’s angry, not stupid.”

Rosalind nodded her thanks. She turned and studied Blackwall wondering what it was about Crestwood’s mayor that had affected him so.

“That one doesn’t understand justice or mercy,” he said softly. “She sees the world in black and white, and ignores all the shades of grey. She shouldn’t be here.”

“Sera is a steady shot. She’s got a network of allies and spies that nearly rivals Leliana’s and she is good at getting the common people to trust us. That’s why she’s here.”

“She’s a loose cannon,” Blackwall replied shortly. “Her quick temper is likely to get us all killed.”

“You didn’t have to come, Blackwall,” Rosalind reminded him.

“I gave my word,” the Warden growled. “I follow Andraste’s chosen.” Once again, his eyes held that frightening naked worship, but also a hint of frustration, as though she weren’t living up to his expectations. “I pledged my loyalty to you. And I won’t be foresworn.” With that, he gulped the rest of his tea, stood up and marched into his tent.

Hawke raised his eyebrows at Rosalind from across the fire. “Friendly bunch you have here,” he grinned. He stood up, came over and sat beside Rosalind. Close. Shoulder to shoulder. “Varric told me you weren’t the easiest to get along with. Seems to be a trait a lot of people in this so-called Inquisition have.”

Rosalind pulled a wry smile. “I suppose,” she said.

“Glad it’s you, and not me, leading this merry band. I prefer my teams to be a bit more jovial.”

“So I heard,” she replied.

“Of course, back in Kirkwall, the members of my little merry band were all my friends. You don’t quite have that luxury, do you Roz?”

Rosalind studied the fire, her tea cup once again held loosely in her hands. “Not really, no.”

“Captured a few months ago and held as prisoner, and now leader of the organization that captured you in the first place. That’s a real head-scratcher.” He reached down into his knee-high boot and pulled out a small flask. “Is that why you don’t tell them about the pain of closing rifts? Not sure who you can trust?” He unscrewed the top of the bottle and took a swig.

“At first,” she said quietly, setting her mug down by her feet and examining the anchor on her hand. “But now. . . now what good would it do?”

“Sure, I get it,” Hawke nodded. “The rifts have to be closed. And that anchor is the only thing we know that can close them. So, the job has to be done. So you do it.” He handed her the flask. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Rosalind took it. She took a swig, and it burned like fire in the back of her throat. She gasped and choked. “What the hell?” she croaked out once she could speak again.

Hawke chuckled. “Antivan whisky,” he said. “Isabella brought me a crate of it last time I saw her before. . . well,” he laughed again, one of his irritating laughs Rosalind suspected he used to hide pain, “a long time ago. This is the last of it, actually. They say it’s fire on the tongue, fire in the belly, and fire in the loins. So, be prepared for that!”

“I thought you told Varric that not everything is a cheap romance,” Rosalind arched an eyebrow.

“Who said anything about cheap,” Hawke quipped. “This stuff is bloody expensive.”

“And what would Isabella say if she knew you were sharing it with me?” Rosalind couldn’t stop herself from asking, even though she knew that Hawke hadn’t seen the pirate queen since the Quanari rebellion in Kirkwall. At least, if Varric’s stories could be believed.

He turned to study her, bright green eyes lost in a sea of black tattoos and shadows. “Oh,” he said in a low, husky voice, “I think she’d like you. Once upon a time the three of us might have had great fun together.”

Rosalind felt a stab of desire deep in her belly at that. The physical reaction shocked her, and made her think momentarily of how scandalized her mother would be to hear that Lord Trevelyan’s only daughter had been spoken to in such a manner. “Oh,” was all she managed to reply. 

Hawke grinned again, a wolfish grin, and easily slid a foot away from her. “But that was another life,” he said wistfully.

It was then that she heard Varric and Sera returning to camp.

*

Rosalind rose early the next morning, to blinding sunlight streaming through her tent. She crawled out into the chilly, damp morning, a bit surprised to find she was the first one up. Varric, Sera and Hawke had been up until the wee hours of the night playing a card game and drinking some foul hooch Sera had managed to barter in Crestwood, so she wasn’t surprised that they were still sleeping. But Blackwall was usually an early riser. 

There was no activity near his tent.

She went to stoke the fire and boil some water to make their morning oatmeal and coffee. She was almost finished when Varric stumbled wearily out of his tent.

“Andraste’s ass,” he mumbled, rubbing his hands over his face, “I always forget how much that damned rogue can drink.”

“Sera?” Rosalind asked mildly, handing him a mug of coffee.

Varric shook his head. “Hawke,” he replied. “Really, it’s amazing I remember anything from our years together at Kirkwall at all, much less enough to write a masterpiece.”

Rosalind snorted in laughter.

For all his grumblings, Varric was a dwarf, and his dwarven constitution made an appearance after a few sips of coffee. His head seemed to clear, and his eyes grew bright. “I actually wanted to talk to you about Hawke, Frostbite.” He said, a note of hesitation in his voice.

“Oh,” she asked, as she ladled some oatmeal into a bowl for herself and poured a generous dose of cream on top.

“Look, he’s my friend. But you should know. He’s. . . he has a bit of a reputation with women.”

“A love them and leave them type, I believe you said in your book.” Rosalind replied, sitting down beside him.

Varric sighed, “right.” He set down his coffee and turned to face her. “Well, that wasn’t creative license. It was the truth.”

“I have no doubt.” She replied, thinking over what she knew of the man.

Varric pursed his lips in frustration. “Frostbite, I saw you with him yesterday afternoon, and again last night. Seemed pretty cozy here by the fire when the two of you were alone. . .”

Rosalind raised her eyebrows, feeling heat rising to her cheeks again. “We were just talking, Varric.”

“Sure, sure.” Varric replied, giving her a knowing look. He chewed his lip for a moment, as though looking for the right words. “We’re friends, aren’t we Frostbite?” 

She nodded, puzzled as to his line of thought.

“Right. Well. Then.” He took a deep breath, “as your friend, I just want to ask something, okay?”

“Of course, Varric.”

“Are you sure Hawke is the one you want to be playing this game with?” He asked, eyes narrowed, searching her face. 

“What?” Rosalind frowned, taken by surprise.

“It’s just. . . are you sure that. . . that there isn’t someone else?” Varric finally finished lamely.

Rosalind studied his face wondering what he could be getting at. Had she missed something in Varric’s overture of friendship? “Varric. . . are you suggesting that you—“

Varric gave a wide smile and shook his head, “Nah, Frostbite. I’m spoken for.” He patted his cross-bow affectionately. “And Bianca’s the jealous type. I just. . . I thought that. . .” he heaved a sigh and shrugged. “Lets just say I had another story I was writing in my head, and leave it at that, shall we?”

“Oh,” Rosalind replied, still puzzled. 

He studied her again, his fingers idly stroking his chin. “Listen, if all you want is a bit of fun. . . well. . . far be it from me to stand in your way. Just. . . hell Frostbite. . . I don’t want you to get your heart broken. Okay?” He looked very uncomfortable.

“Varric,” Rosalind smiled, poking him gently in the ribs. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a big softly, alright?” He picked up his coffee and fumbled with the handle of his mug, staring out over the now-clear skies of Crestwood. “Now that the rift is closed and the demons vanquished, it really is quite lovely here, isn’t it.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “I could see settling down here for a bit.”

“You do tend to raise the property values wherever you go.”

“Just another part of being everyone’s last hope for salvation, I suppose.”

He chuckled at that. And they sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping coffee and eating breakfast.

“Thank you for your concern,” she finally said. “I appreciate knowing that someone is looking out for me.”

“Any time, Frostbite.” He patted her shoulder gently. “Any time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a lot more scenes written, but nothing connecting them all together yet! Still, things are shaping up. Hoping to keep updating on a bi-weekly basis for most of the summer (with time off for camping trips, of course!!)


	19. A Wish for Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, Cullen's POV. I've been working on Leliana (who I find a fascinating character). I hope I captured her faithfully here. Enjoy!

*

Sunlight was streaming through the hole in Cullen’s roof, turning the inside of his eyelids red. He groaned, and rolled over, away from the offensive glare, burrowing down further in his bed.

Then he froze in shock, his eyes flying open.

Sunlight was streaming through the hole in his roof.

Sunlight.

The sun was, in fact, quite high in the sky.

And he was still in bed. Had still been asleep.

Cullen sat up, rubbing his eyes in confusion. It was easily mid-morning. Maybe later. There were sounds outside of activity. The members of the Inquisition were most definitely up and about. And he had, apparently, slept through it all. 

More than that, he had slept without dreaming. No tortured nightmares had clawed at his mind. No desire demon in Rosalind’s form. No Ulrich. No Meredith. Mercifully, they had all abandoned him to solitude last night.

He couldn’t remember the last time he failed to see a sunrise. Failed to rise before everyone else in camp. 

He hurriedly swung out of bed, a stab of guilt spurring him into action. Hastily pulling on a pair of soft breeches and a loose tunic, he raced down the ladder, feeling more alert and more alive than he had in months.

Maybe in years. 

He paused at the base of the ladder, still lightly holding the rungs before him and pondering the matter. He did feel different. But not so different. If he had to put it into words, he would have said he felt a bit, a small bit, more like himself. The old self from before Kinloch hold and Kirkwall. Before lyrium addiction, abominations, and rogue templars.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Leliana called, causing Cullen to jump and spin around. She was sitting behind his desk, idly toying with a small letter opener. She gave him a small smile, her eyes slowly taking in his lack of armour and dishevelled hair in a way that made heat rise to Cullen’s face. The heated blush only caused Leliana’s smile to widen. 

Cullen hastily flattened down his roguish curls with one hand, causing Leliana to outright chuckle. “I—ah I appear to have overslept.” He stammered. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me. . . unprepared.”

“Indeed, Commander. When one sleeps where one works, these are always risks, no?” She asked, a laugh still lingering in her musical voice.

Cullen licked his lips and forced himself to stop fixating on his damn hair. “Indeed,” he said, lowering his hand with an effort and walking over to her. “I am sorry. I hope my absence has not caused too much of an inconvenience.”

Leliana was already bending over a few papers on Cullen’s desk. She gave him a small look out of the corner of her eye. “Hardly, commander,” she said. “With the Inquisitor gone, there is not much to do. Josie is trying to secure us an invitation to the Winter Palace, as you know. And there are some other minor matters. But most things will simply have to wait until Lady Trevelyan’s return.”

“Ah,” Cullen said softly. His heart lurched, at the memory of Rosalind leaving Skyhold with her small party the day before. Leaving the safe walls of their fortress and setting out into an unknown land. Where a dragon and an arch-demon may well set upon her. He swallowed hard. “Has. . . has there been any news from the Inquisitor?” he asked, striving to keep his voice light.

“No,” Leliana replied. “But scout Harding reports that lady Trevelyan and her party arrived safely this morning. There was something to do with a rift she was going to try to deal with before meeting Hawke’s Warden friend. I’ll let you know if anything more develops. In the meantime,” she straightened some papers and pushed them towards him, “I need you to approve the following requisition of solider support for the spy network still deployed in the Hinterlands. We have identified a few more rogue templar and apostate camps, and I would like to bring as much stability to the area as possible. And I believe Josephine wanted to speak with you about who to send with a delegation to speak with prince Gaspard in Orlais.”

“Gaspard? Don’t we need an audience with Celine?” Cullen asked, remembering that dark future Rosalind had spoken of.

“Indeed, but Josie believes that Gaspard is the best chance we have of gaining that audience. So, we need to send soldiers to accompany her delegation who will not, how did she put this, repulse the Orlesians with their rustic Fereldan ways.’”

“Ah,” Cullen said making a face in disgust. “Of course we do. I’ll meet with her directly.”

“Good,” Leliana replied. “Though I’m sure she won’t mind if you wanted to take a moment to style your hair first,” she called as she left the office, headed back to her tower.

Cullen closed his eyes, feeling the flush of embarrassment rise again. But he did take the time to subdue his hair, shave, and dress in his armour, before reviewing the requisitions Leliana had left on his desk, and heading out to speak with Josephine.

*

Two hours later and there seemed to be nothing for Cullen to do. He swung by the kitchens for a mug of coffee and some thick bread and butter, and then headed back to his office where he stared, in mystification, at the general lack of papers on his desk.

He still had training exercises to conduct. Having slept through the morning drills he assumed that Cassandra had led them. But the afternoon drills were still several hours off. 

He stood in puzzlement, wondering what to do with himself.

“Well,” he said, draining his coffee, “I suppose I’ll go find Cassandra to say thanks.”

Cassandra was, as usual, near the practice arena. But she wasn’t training. Instead, she was curled up under a tree with a book, which she hastily hid behind her back at Cullen’s approach. “Seeker,” he said carefully, bemused at the way she refused to meet his gaze. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes of course. I was. . . I was. . .”

Unable to stand witness to Cassandra’s evident discomfort, Cullen offered a way out “consulting a training manual?” he asked.

“Yes, exactly. But it is out of date,” Cassandra rushed ahead, seizing on the explanation. “I thought it might be of some help, but it’s frankly embarrassing that we have this in the library at all.”

“Ah, well . . .” 

“Yes,” Cassandra’s ears were turning pink, and her face pulled into a scowl. “Was there something you needed, Commander?”

“No, Seeker. I just wanted to thank you for running the morning drill for me and. . . and apologize for my absence. It appears I overslept.”

Cassandra met his gaze at that, and her own eyes were full of genuine warmth. “Did you really?” She breathed. “That is wonderful news, Commander. I am heartened to hear it.”

Cullen cleared his throat, trying to mask his own gratitude at her care behind a stoic professionalism, and failing. “As am I, Seeker,” he finally said with feeling.

She smiled softly and rose to clasp Cullen’s hand firmly in her own. “I pray that this is a sign of things to come,” she said. “But it is unlikely that the nightmares are over,” she added.

“I know.”

“Still, a full night’s rest is wonderful news.” She had a far away look in her eyes. “I believe Andraste works in mysterious ways, Commander. Sending Rosalind to us in a time of need. And perhaps, now, in guiding you through this recovery.”

Cullen was somewhat taken aback by this statement. “Seeker,” he fumbled, “I—I wouldn’t presume to say my battle against lyrium withdrawal is anything like Andraste’s Herald.”

Cassandra laughed, “you think yourself unimportant in this, Commander?” She asked. “And yet, you were drawn here, just as Rosalind was drawn here. And it is here that you have found some measure of peace.” She shrugged. “We cannot presume to know the will of the Maker. But nonetheless, I am grateful that you found some measure of peace.”

“Thank you,” Cullen managed to say, wondering what in Thedas led Cassandra to connect his private battle against lyrium with Andraste and Rosalind. 

“In any case,” she continued, releasing his hand, “your apology is entirely unnecessary. Ryonce was able to lead the morning drills without incident. I was not inconvenienced at all. You might consider allowing Ryonce to lead some of the training drills for you from time to time, to allow you a bit of reprieve and give him some more experience.””

Cullen raised his eyebrows at that. 

“Is something wrong, Commander?”

“No,” he hastened to clarify, “no. Not at all. It’s just that, well, between you, Ryonce and Leliana, I’m beginning to feel quite superfluous here.”

At that Cassandra laughed. “Hardly, Commander. There is simply not as much to do right now. As you can see, even I was enjoying a break.” She gestured at the book behind here, seemed to realize that she had drawn attention to it, and pursed her lips together in a tight line, scowling. 

Despite himself, Cullen glance at the tree trunk behind Cassandra, beholding a book that, by the half-naked people on the front cover, was most definitely not a training manual. He hastily schooled his features to neutrality and cleared his throat. But he couldn’t help himself from saying “You consider reading training manuals a break?”

Cassandra growled, her dark eyes flashing dangerously.

“I—I’ll take my leave, then,” Cullen said, hastily backing up and repressing a laugh.

“Do that,” Cassandra replied curtly through clenched teeth.

Cullen turned and fled as quickly as dignity allowed.

*

Cullen had spent what was left of the morning reorganizing his office, and actually found some ways of improving current procedures to reduce redundancy and increase efficiency among his forces. He’d had time for a lengthy talk with the weapons’ master, and consulted with the builders about areas of Skyhold he felt were still unsecured. He’d led the afternoon training drills, and even found time to ask Bull if the chargers would mind teaching some of the rank and file some of their more unorthodox methods. Now, after a meeting with Vivienne to inquire into how the circle mages were faring under the Inquisition’s care, Cullen found himself, once again, with nothing to do. He was pleased with what he had accomplished. Many of the tasks he had done were things that always somehow fell to the bottom of his list, never quite as important as other concerns. And he was glad he’d finally found time for them. But with the better part of the afternoon and evening still before him, he wasn’t sure what to do next. 

He sat in his office and stared at the hole in his ceiling, considering whether to fix it. He had the time to make a good start at it. But, if he was honest with himself, he didn’t much relish the idea of having it fixed. He feared his office would feel too closed in, that he himself would feel too trapped, were he to do so. As it was, on nights when he woke up in a cold sweat gasping for air, it was comforting to see the stars above, and know that air was readily available. He enjoyed the space.

“Besides,” he said to himself, “there must be something else more important than a stupid hole in a roof.” And, so saying, he stood up and made for the war room. Perhaps he’d find something had been overlooked if he studied the war table again.

As he walked the length of Skyhold he heard people laughing from the Herald’s Rest. Though it was still early, a roaring party seemed to have begun inside. There were also a fair number of people simply lounging on the lawn, chatting, or dozing in the late afternoon sun. Cullen noticed, for the first time, that it was a rather warm afternoon, and realized that today was the equinox. It was spring. For some reason, that made his heart feel lighter. And it explained some of the general levity he saw around him.

Inside the main hall of Skyhold was dark and quiet. The throne Rosalind had yet to occupy sat imposingly at the end of the great hall on a raised dais. Cullen looked away from it, not wishing to be reminded of the awesome power that rested on Lady Trevelyan’s shoulders.

Nor to think of her at all, really. And the way he had spoken to her the last time he’d seen her.

Outside the war room, he found Josephine bent over a pile of papers, brow furrowed. She looked up at the sound of his footsteps. “Commander,” she said, a pleasant smile immediately appearing on her face, all sign of care and worry vanishing. “Is there something I can do for you?”

It was something Cullen had come to admire very much about the lady ambassador; her ability to put her cares and worries aside, and make others around her feel at ease. But, there was no hiding the care-worn expression her face had worn a moment before she had registered his presence.

“No, my lady,” Cullen replied, crossing the room to stand before her desk. “But perhaps there is something I can do for you?” He gestured at the stack of papers before her. “I find myself idle this afternoon, and if you have need of assistance, I would be happy to help if I can.”

Josephine’s smile grew larger, expressing genuine gratitude. “Thank you, Commander. Sadly, most of this,” she gestured at the papers before her, “is not a matter that can be delegated to another. I am sorry. However. . .” she paused, frowning and running her finger tips idly along a piece of parchment. “I wonder if. . . well. . . Commander, I believe Leliana spoke to you about Lady Trevelyan’s past?”

“Yes,” Cullen replied, surprised to find he’d forgotten entirely about the unanswered questions about Rosalind. 

“Well,” Josephine continued, “I sent requests out far and wide for more information about the Ostwick circle in general and Rosalind in particular. Nothing really ever surfaced. And then. . . well between the events at Haven and resettling here. . . I had all but forgotten about it. A response came this morning. It’s from a man who claims to have been a templar in the Ostwick circle when Rosalind was there.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He’s written asking for an audience with us. He would like to join the Inquisition, Commander, but . . . but he fears Lady Trevelyan would not welcome him.”

“And why is that?” Cullen asked, cold fingers of fear pinching the back of his neck.

Josephine sighed, tucking a stray hair back into her elaborate coiffure. “He did not say. He’s in the Storm Coast now, having traveled by ship from Ostwick. He would like an audience with us, if we are willing. I have not responded yet. I wished to wait to speak with Lady Trevelyan. But. . .”

“It might be better to let sleeping dogs lie?” Cullen asked softly.

“What a delightfully Ferelden way of putting it. Yes. Exactly so, Commander.” Josephine’s smile grew larger. “On the other hand,” she frowned again, lines of worry etching themselves into her features.

“If there is some scandal waiting to be exposed, you’d rather know about it ahead of time, no?” Leliana’s lilting voice filled the room, startling Cullen and Josephine.

The ambassador sighed. “Yes. That is the problem, precisely. Rosalind has been oddly reticent about her family and her past. She hasn’t forbidden me from enquiring, but has not been very forthcoming, either. And I received no response from the enquiries I sent to the Trevelyan estate. It seems her family has no interest in acknowledging that their daughter is the Herald of Andraste. I do not wish to do anything that might upset Lady Trevelyan, or remind her of a past she’d like to stay forgotten. On the other hand, this young man is out there. And while he seems to pose us no threat—quite the opposite, actually—there may be others . . .”

“The Inquisitor’s image must be protected, Josie” Leliana broke in. “Especially as we are seeking an audience with Empress Celine. It would be a simple matter to send some agents to. . .” she paused, cocking her head to one side, as though thinking the matter over. “No, as you say, he poses no threat yet. But someone should speak to him.”

“I agree,” Cullen answered. He eyed Leliana carefully. He couldn’t be certain, but he was fairly sure the spymaster had been about to suggest an assassination, and had thought better of it. If so, it was the first time in a long while that he saw anything resembling the kind young woman he’d met in Ferelden. “I can leave to meet with him tomorrow, if you like. I don’t seem to have any pressing duties here, and Ryonce can certainly handle the troops for the few days it will take me to go speak to the man.”

Josephine gave a great sigh of relief. “That would be much appreciated, Commander. I am not sure when to expect the Inquisitor’s return and. . . well. . . having this potential problem out there with no information would weigh on my mind. If you could hear his story and report back, well, at least we’d know what we are dealing with.”

Cullen took a deep breath, and nodded. He had offered Josephine help. But he doubted very much that he’d want to hear anything this former Ostwick templar had to say about why Rosalind would be wary of him.

“Excellent,” Leliana smiled. “Now, Commander, did I hear you correctly? Do you find yourself with little to occupy your time right now?”

“Can I be of assistance, spymaster?” Cullen asked.

Leliana laughed, “Not in any professional capacity, no. But Dorian appears to have grown tired of losing to me in chess. Fancy a game?”

“Uh,” Cullen hesitated. He quite liked chess, actually. It had been a common pass-time in the Rutherford household when he was a child. But it seemed frivolous to spend the evening playing chess.

“Ah,” Leliana smirked, “I quite understand. It would be embarrassing for the commander of the Inquisition’s forces to lose to a chantry lay sister.”

Cullen arched an eyebrow. Describing Leliana as a chantry lay sister, while technically accurate, was grossly misleading. He knew Leliana was goading him, but found himself rising to the challenge all the same. “Alright, sister,” he said mockingly, “you’re on.”

*  
They sat under a tree in the dappled sunlight of the courtyard, sharing a bottle of watered wine and playing chess on an old battered board. It was nice. It almost felt. . . normal. Cullen took a deep breath, and sat back in his chair, gazing up into the canopy above.

“Enjoy it while you can,” Leliana smirked, “you must prepare for your inevitable defeat.”

Cullen laughed, glancing at the board. Leliana cheated. Flagrantly. And badly. “Check mate,” he declared, sliding his rook into place as he spoke.

Leliana pulled a face, “damn,” she huffed out, flicking her king over lazily with one finger. “Best two out of three?”

Again Cullen hesitated. “I—I should be getting back to work. . .” he said.

“I thought you were haunting Josie’s office looking for something to do?” Leliana teased. “Afraid you won’t be able to keep your winning streak going?”

“Hardly,” Cullen laughed. “But. . .” he rolled the stem of his wine glass in his fingers, studying the contents, lost in thought. “But after the fall of Haven. . . I vowed to stay vigilant.”

Leliana’s smile faded softly. “I understand, Commander,” she said. “We all bear responsibility for the loss of Haven. When my agents went missing a few days before the attack I. . . I pulled those that remained back. I tried to keep them safe. Perhaps. . . if I had risked more. . . I might have been able to give us the warning we needed to get everyone to safety.”

Cullen shook his head, “It was not your fault,” he began, but Leliana held up a hand.

“Rosalind has already said as much, and she was right. She reminded me that pulling back my agents was not a weakness, but a sign of compassion. And compassion is a strength. It is a manifestation of the Maker’s love for us here on earth.” Leliana smiled softly. “I needed that reminder, it would seem. Still, though I believe she was right, I doubt. It is hard not to feel that if we worked harder, were more vigilant, or more tireless in our efforts, that things might have been different, no?”

Cullen nodded, marvelling at how long it had been since he had seen Leliana speak of compassion as anything but a luxury that she could not afford. 

“Cullen,” Leliana continued, as she began to reset the chess board, “have you considered the source of your present idleness?”

“What?” Cullen asked, “No, I—”

“You should know, your idleness is no accident. The lady Inquisitor wished you to have a measure of rest, and she met with myself and Cassandra to ensure this wish was granted. She has done much for me, Commander, and I will see her wish fulfilled.” 

“Rosalind asked. . .” Cullen sputtered, unable to believe that Rosalind could have any concern for his welfare after their last meeting.

“She did.” Leliana confirmed. 

“Why? I—I, the last time I saw her. . .”

“You told her you were responsible for Bethany’s death, and refused to speak of Kinloch Hold, I believe?” Leliana supplied mildly, as she set her king upright in his place on the board.

Cullen’s mouth fell open. Did this woman literally have spies in the war room itself?

Leliana gave a low, melodious laugh at his reaction. “The Inquisitor told me, Commander. I have no one tailing you.”

“She told you?” Cullen repeated.

“Indeed, before asking me to help her investigate your past.”

“She’s investigating my past?” He repeated again, feeling damn foolish, but unable to come up with anything else to say.

“Yes. I understand you were unwilling to speak of Kinloch Hold, which is eminently understandable. I told her nothing, Commander.”

“I—Thank you,” Cullen whispered, trying hard to force his mind away from the first time he’d met Leliana. In Kinloch Hold.

Leliana nodded, her eyes focused on the board again. “Of course. She hurt you deeply with her distrust of you, no?” Her voice was light and even, and her eyes never left the board. She meticulously lined up the white pawns in front of her as she spoke.

Cullen didn’t know how to respond to that. “I’m. . . I was. . . a templar,” he said finally. “Her wariness is understandable.”

“Perhaps,” Leliana replied, sliding his king back into place. “But it must have hurt, nonetheless.” She fell silent, lining up the black pawns in front of him. After a moment, she spoke again. “She is a scholar, Commander. She will always seek to discover the truth for herself. Trust will not come easy, and it is not only because of your templar past. It is, I believe, a part of her nature.”

“I know,” Cullen replied with feeling. He did. Rosalind’s careful, thoughtful nature was one of the things he admired about her. “I should not have reacted as I did.” 

Liliana gave a delicate shrug to that, choosing not to reply. She took a sip of wine instead, and stared out at the garden. After a moment, she met Cullen’s gaze, and there was a sharp sympathy in her aquamarine eyes. “She is not Solana Amell, Commander,” she said softly.

Cullen swallowed, unable to speak as he remembered Enchanter Amel, his infatuation with her, and his blindness to her collusion with Ulrich. Leliana had not spoken of their shared past in Kinloch Hold since Cullen had joined the Inquisition, a fact he was grateful for. So why would she bring this up now? Did Leliana know of his feelings for Rosalind? He wondered what else the spymaster knew. Was she aware of his decision to stop taking lyrium and the toll that decision was having on his body? He searched her face, but saw nothing there other than sympathy and care. And, despite himself, he remembered the first time he'd met Leliana. In Kinloch Hold. Where his infatuation with Solana may well have caused the circle to fall.

He would not fail again. He could not.

But Rosalind was not Solana. Whatever she might personally think of him, whatever doubts she might have, she cared enough to see that he got the rest his body so badly needed.

She cared enough to request that others watch over him even as she investigated whether or not he was responsible for Bethany’s death.

Rosalind was not Solana.

He cleared his throat. “I know,” he whispered, hoarsely.

Leliana nodded, apparently satisfied. She set her wine glass down and leaned over the board. “So, shall we see if your luck will hold? My move first, I believe?” she asked.

“Yes,” Cullen replied, thinking of Rosalind, and of her wish that he be granted a day or two of rest. “Another game would be welcome.”


	20. Strength and Faith

“So, according to the warden’s correspondence, this is where I think we’ll find him,” Hawke said, gesturing at the small entrance to what looked like a dark, wet, cramped and twisting cave.

“You think?” Rosalind asked, peering into the cave, with a sinking heart. Why was it always dark caves? She asked herself.

“Well, everything was vague and in code,” Hawke explained, “in case we got intercepted.”

“Right, of course. So we get to investigate this cave, and it might all be for nothing,” Varric drawled.

“Futility is the price of saving the world, in my experience,” Hawke replied, grinning. “Anyway, after to you,” he gestured at Rosalind.

“Me?”

“Well, we’ll need a light in there, right? I’m certainly not wandering into a dark cave without a light. Could be spiders,” and he shivered theatrically.

“And I suppose no one thought to bring a torch?” Rosalind sighed. Her party looked at her with varying levels of guilt. “Right. Fine.” She closed her eyes, and conjured a small veil-fire in her hand. Holding it aloft, she headed carefully into the cave. Hawke followed behind her, then Sera, then Varric and Blackwall brought up the rear.

At first it was quite narrow, her party having to pass single file. There were a few points of careful manoeuvrings especially for the larger members of her party. But after a hundred yards or so, the cave widened dramatically, and Rosalind saw a torch in a wall sconce at the far end of what was a quite spacious natural room. There were ancient cave paintings on the wall, and all sorts of detritus scattered about. It looked as though the cave had served many purposes in its past, most recently as a smuggler’s hide out. She extinguished her veil-fire and slowly entered the room.

She could hear Hawke swearing as he tried to squeeze through the last tight point in the tunnel, but that wasn’t the noise that froze her.

She heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed.

She carefully turned around, already casting a tight barrier around herself.

A tall, powerful, dangerous looking man now had a sword pointed at Rosalind’s chest. This was the last time she was ever going to enter a cave first, she thought to herself. She held both hands high, and took even breaths, trying to show she wasn’t a threat.

His lip curled in disgust as he slid into a fighting stance. Rosalind reached for her staff, preparing for the worst.

“It’s okay,” Hawke called, having finally wiggled out of the tunnel, “It’s just us. I brought the Inquisitor.”

The man glanced from Rosalind to Hawke, and back. His face softened, and he looked more like a large, and lost, boy, then a dangerous fighter. “Apologies,” he said to Rosalind, sheathing his sword as he did so. And, while the word seemed genuine, there was also something perfunctory about it. As though his mind was too preoccupied by other matters to give his mistaken aggression towards her much consideration. 

He eyed the other members of her party carefully as they filtered into the room. “You have a Grey Warden with you?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Warden Blackwall,” Blackwall replied, stepping forward slightly. He looked decidedly uncomfortable to have been picked out.

For the first time, Hawke’s warden friend seemed to show some genuine interest. His face became animated, and Rosalind thought he looked quite likable. “You’re Blackwall? Duncan—my mentor—he spoke quite highly of you.” He smiled. 

“Duncan,” Blackwall said, in an odd voice. “Uh—Of course—Good man.” To Rosalind’s ears it sounded as though Blackwall couldn’t remember the man, but didn’t want to admit as much. Though, she had no idea how many Grey Wardens there were. Perhaps it wasn’t so odd that Blackwall wouldn’t remember meeting Duncan, whoever that was. Perhaps it was nice that he spared this new man’s feelings by not admitting that this Duncan had not made any great impression on him.

“I suppose some introductions are in order,” the warden continued, evidently having not noticed anything amiss. “I’m Alastair—”

“The Alastair?” Varric burst out, before Rosalind could say anything. “The warden who helped the hero of Fereldon slay the arch demon and end the first blight?” He looked between Alastair and Hawke, with genuine surprise. “Hawke, why didn’t you tell me you were hanging out with a legend?”

Hawke raised his eyebrows, “Not everyone wants to be immortalized by you, Varric.”

“But you are him, right?” Varric pressured.

Alastair gave a rueful grin. “I need to change my name,” he sighed. “But yes. That was me. War, betrayal, darkspawn,” his voice turned decidedly ugly as he gave Varric a penetrating glare, “all lots of fun, and made for excellent stories, I’m sure.”

“Well. . .” Varric had the decency to look embarrassed.

Alastair sighed. “That was a long time ago. No one cares about that anymore. I answer to Warden Commander Clarel now, like everyone else.”

“Still,” Rosalind said in a small voice. “I’m honoured to meet you, Alastair. Everyone here owes our lives to you.” She gave the curtsey she had been taught to give to those who hold a rank higher than oneself. It seemed appropriate. Only Marcher-born Varric seemed to understand the significance, his eyebrows raising and his mouth forming a silent ‘O’. 

Alastair only looked more uncomfortable, his face turning a flaming red as Rosalind dipped into her curtsey before him. “I—thank you,” he said awkwardly. “But please, don’t. Andraste’s Herald shouldn’t kneel before someone like me.” and there was a glimmer of faith in his eyes as he said so. Rosalind understood, in that moment, that to this man she would not be a person. She would be a symbol, just as she was to Blackwall. It hurt to think a literal legend would view her so, but she rose at his command, nonetheless.

“It’s an honour to meet you” he said, gazing at her with worship in his eyes. He suddenly shook himself, and looked around, as though just remembering the two of them were not alone, “—all of you—as well,” he added, hastily. “I wish it were someplace nicer.”

“Well,” Hawke broke in, “now that everyone’s been properly introduced, and no one has killed anyone else, shall we get down to business?”

“Yes,” Rosalind replied. “I understand there is a problem with the Grey Wardens. I was hoping to recruit them to our cause in order to help with the threat of the Elder One. But I have learned from Hawke that this might not be possible?”

Alastair huffed out a sigh. “It should be, shouldn’t it? We should be on the front lines of the Inquisition. Whatever else this Corypheus is, he certainly sounds like something connected to the Dark Spawn to me. Once I heard of what the Inquisition had found, I sought a way to contact you in order to share with you what I know. I had spoken to Hawke about Corypheus a few years ago when he killed him in Kirkwall.”

“Hawke killed Corypheus?” Sera burst out. “Then why is the bugger still here, eh?”

“Yes, I’m curious about that as well.” Hawke growled. “I don’t like to hear that I left a job half-done.”

“I contacted Hawke,” Alastair continued, apparently impervious to the interruptions, “because Corypheus sounded like an arch demon. And arch demons don’t die so easily, believe me.” His eyes filled with tears momentarily, and everyone fell silent.

And Rosalind remembered the memorials held across Thedas to honour the Hero of Fereldon after she fell. Remembered the outpouring of love and support that had been lavished on the Dalish elves, and even on those who lived in the alienages, in honour of her memory for a few years after her passing. Some had hoped it would bring about a change in the social order.

It hadn’t.

Rosalind had been an apprentice then, a year or two away from her harrowing. And when she’d ran from that bloody harrowing and crossed paths with the Dalish outside of Ostwick, she hadn’t understood their contempt for her or for her people.

After all, didn’t the Hero’s death change everything?

It didn’t.

But it was a number of years before she understood that. A number of years before she fully realized that history cannot be erased in a moment. And that honouring one does not remind people to honour the many.

Like archdemons, maybe, she thought. There are injustices that are hard to overcome. And hatreds that cannot be felled by a single blow. 

Still, the goodwill of the Ostwick humans towards the Dalish following the hero’s sacrifice was well known. Ostwick even went above and beyond other cities in trying to correct historical wrongs, for a time. It had once been what defined the city and set it apart from the other Free Marches; a relatively safe and welcoming place to be an elf. Ostwick’s reputation meant that the Dalish who lived outside the city were not as hostile and reclusive as most other Dalish communities. 

And this cautious collegiality stayed the Dalish hunter’s hand momentarily when he found Rosalind alone and afraid, starving in the forest.

In more ways than one, then, the hero of Fereldon had saved her life.

Alastair wiped a hand impatiently across his eyes, wiping away any lingering moisture, and cleared his throat. “Well, I feared there was a link between Corypheus and the archdemons. So, I began to investigate. I contacted Hawke, who lent his aid. I found hints. But no proof. Then, not long after, every Grey Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.”

The way he said the last sentence sent a shiver up Rosalind’s spine, though she had no idea what a Calling was.

“You didn’t tell me that” Hawke exploded, real fear in his voice.

Alastair gave a grim laugh. “I try to actually keep a few of my oaths to the Wardens,” he said bitterly. And if it was an oath, Rosalind wondered what had led him to break it now.

“What’s the Calling?” she asked, instead, her head swiveling between Alastair and Blackwall, looking for someone to fill her in. Blackwall presented her with nothing but a thunderous frown. Perhaps he disapproved of Alastair breaking his oath in this manner. 

“It’s a secret, and a very dangerous one,” Alastair supplied when it became apparent that Blackwall would say nothing. “Grey Wardens fight the dark spawn. That much everyone knows. But there is more. We . . . we are tied to the Darkspawn in a ritual that connects us. . . it allows us to sense them. But that connection eventually poisons you. It starts with bad dreams. And then. . . then you start to hear the music.” Alastair’s voice dipped low, and he stared off at something only he could see. “It calls to you,” he whispered. “Quiet at first. And then . . . and then so loud you can’t bear it.” He seemed to shake himself, and met everyone’s eyes again. “At that point you say farewell,” he shrugged, “and you go into the deep roads to die fighting. In death, sacrifice,” he supplied the last line of the Warden’s Oath. And it too sounded perfunctory.

No one said anything for a moment. Then Varric gave a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a secret,” he said.

“And you hear this calling too?” Rosalind asked.

“Yes,” Alastair confirmed in a small, tired voice. “It’s quieter when I’m distracted. Talking, or fighting. But when I’m alone. . . when things are quiet. . . it’s all I can think about. Bloody annoying, really.”

Rosalind frowned at the description. It sounded familiar. Like lyrium withdrawal. “And you as well, Blackwall?” she asked, turning to her Grey Warden companion.

“I do not fear the Calling,” Blackwall responded, raising his chin in defiance. 

“So every Grey Warden is hearing that right now?” Hawke broke in, “they think they’re all dying?” He looked at Alastair incredulous. The unspoken question ‘why didn’t you tell me?’ hung there in the air between them.

Rosalind studied Blackwall, wondering the exact same thing about him. How far could she trust a man who would keep an oath even to the point of endangering his whole company? This was information they could have used weeks ago!

Alastair ignored Hawke’s incredulous look. “Yes,” he said mildly. And though he looked like a boy, he sounded like an old man. “I think Corypheus caused it somehow.”

“You think he’s trying to manipulate them? Make them afraid?” Rosalind asked, turning back to Alastair.

He nodded.

“But why?” she asked. “What does he gain by their fear?”

“That’s exactly what we need to find out,” Alastair answered. “But, if I’m right, they’re terrified. And they are playing right into this Elder One’s hands. I’ve got some leads in the Western Approach,” he went on, turning to some papers he had scattered on a table beneath the torch. “It seems a number of my Warden breather are gathered there. I’m going to go check it out.” As he spoke, he folded up the papers in a leather folio and placed them and a few other objects from the table into a bag. Picking up the torch, he headed towards the narrow cave-entrance. “I could use some help, if you’re so inclined,” he called over his shoulder, the light of the torch receding as he made his slow progress through the tunnel, leaving them in darkness.

“He’s going now?” Varric asked quietly, as Rosalind conjured some veil-fire.

“So it would seem,” Hawke pulled a face and arched an eyebrow. “What do ya say, Roz? You in?”

Rosalind squared her shoulders, and thought longingly of tea and books. “I am,” she replied, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

*

He stalked the halls of Kinloch Hold, screams reverberating around him. He wore his templar armor, the pommel of his sword a comforting weight in his hand. But sweat prickled the back of his neck. And blood-curdling screams filled his ears. The circle was falling.

Cullen spun slowly in a circle, looking everywhere. Voices continued to assault his ears, but there was no one there.

And then a wild cry in a voice he recognized. “Knight-Captain! Help! Please!”

It was Bethany. He didn’t know how he knew that. He’d never heard her voice raised in agitation before. But he knew it was her. It shouldn’t be her. Not here. Not in Kinloch Hold. But it was.

He ran down one corridor, then another, searching for her, while her wild cries of agony reverberated in his ears.

He found her, finally, lying prone beneath the hulking body of a pride demon. She was whimpering softly, not yet dead. And yet, given the extent of her injuries, it was hard to see how she lived.

Still, Bethany was an extraordinary healer. If he could just get to her, slay the demon, she may yet have the strength to heal herself. If he could just save her. Just save one mage he’d sworn to protect.

Just once, he thought wildly as he prepared for battle. Just this once, I will not fail.

He charged at the demon and was swatted away like a fly. He crashed into one of Kirkwall’s many beige walls, sliding to the floor and lying there, dazed. The demon roared with laughter. “You think you can best me?” The Pride demon rumbled, turning towards Cullen, and throwing his head back in a nasty laugh. “You failed her before, and you will fail her again. You can no longer win. You could have been strong. But you have chosen weakness.” So speaking, the demon plucked Bethany up by the hair, and shook her before him. Her mouth gaped in a silent scream, blood frothing from her lips. 

It was too late. Too late. She would die again. And it would be his fault. 

And Cullen knew the demon was right. It was his fault. Before, when he was a Knight-Captain at the height of his powers, he might have been able to defeat a pride demon. Now. . . he was weak. He had chosen to be weak.

Now there was no hope without Lyrium.

Lyrium. 

Lyrium! Cullen’s eyes focused on it, across the courtyard. There was an open bottle of lyrium sitting upright on a table, abandoned. 

He struggled to his feet, tossing his sword and shield, and dodging past the demon’s blow.

He was running towards the bottle before he even thought.

Running before his mind even registered what it was.

Lyrium.

He couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t want to stop himself. Wanted to feel the sweet liquid sing in his veins, and drown out the voices of the countless people he had failed.

Wanted to feel strong. Wanted to save Bethany. 

And he would save her. He would. He would not fail again.

“How many did you save?” someone asked as he picked the bottle up. The voice was wrong, but he couldn’t remember how it was supposed to sound.

Cullen ignored it, lifting the bottle to his lips.

“Do you normally just ignore direct questions put to you?” The same person asked again, the voice had a mild lilt to it. A hand reached out, snatching the lyrium from his grasp before Cullen could drink.

He turned in wild desperation, reaching for the bottle blindly, and gave an inhuman cry as the stranger nonchalantly tossed the bottled over his shoulder. It smashed on the stone floor, precious liquid seeping into the cracks between the stone. Fading from a vivid blue to a dark, ugly black.

“I’d say I’m sorry,” the man before him said, shrugging, “but that would be a lie. And Chantry brothers aren’t really supposed to lie.”

Cullen cried out in horror, whirling around to face the demon he was sure was barrelling down on him

But there was no demon. It had apparently abandoned its prey, and left the courtyard. Bethany’s form lay, crumpled, face-down, in an expanding pool of blood. Just as he had found her only a few years ago. Dead before he arrived on the scene. He had failed her again.

He let out a howl of despair and raced to her side, sinking to his knees beside her, heedless of the blood soaking into his clothes. Wasn’t her blood on his hands already? 

He laid a hand on her back. She didn’t move.

Gingerly, Cullen turned her over as the strange new man approached behind him. But it wasn’t Bethany’s gentle blue eyes that gazed into his. The eyes that held his were black. Black as night. And filled with fire.

Rosalind. 

He had failed Rosalind. She gasped twice in his hands, blood pouring from her mouth in viscous red bubbles. She blinked. Looked from Cullen to the other man. Her eyes widened in shock, and Cullen heard the man behind him let out a soft gasp.

Then the bright intensity of her eyes dimmed, sliding away from him. She stilled in his arms. And he knew she was dead.

He bent over her, cradling her form to his as the world around him went up in flames. The grief was unbearable. He'd never felt such pain. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. A white hot band of pain encircled his chest and throat, gagging him and causing him to double over Rosalind's body, making inhuman noises he didn't recognize as his own. Rosalind was dead, and it was his fault. 

Gently, he laid Rosalind down, and closed her glassy eyes, sparing himself the sight of her lifeless gaze. Then grief gave way to rage. Rosalind was dead, and it was his fault. But not only his fault. He seized his sword, stood, and whirled on the man standing behind him.

The man who had seized lyrium, and victory, from his grasp.

The man who was now softly crying.

But the tears were not what made Cullen stay his hand. The familiarity did. For a moment, he thought he was looking at Rosalind again. He whipped his head around to see her laying at his feet. She was no longer there.

“I. . . there was a Pride demon. Bethany. . . Rosalind,” he managed to sputter out.

“Yes, I know,” the stranger replied, wiping tears from his cheek. “They were here. Now they aren’t. The Fade works like that sometimes. But it still feels real, doesn’t it? It still hurts.”

“Fade?” Cullen spun back to face the man. He stared at the stranger, certain he’d never seen him before. And yet. . . there was something familiar about his black eyes. Not intense, like Rosalind’s. And yet. . .

The man wore Chantry brother robes, and had closely cropped white-blond hair. He scrubbed at his wet eyes and took a deep breath, then gave Cullen a wobbly smile. “I admit, that was hard to witness,” he said. “You’re a stronger man than I, enduring this every night.”

“Who are you?” Cullen asked.

“Just a visitor,” the stranger replied with a shrug. “And, I’m sorry. I really am sorry. But I can’t stop what will happen next. Still, it might help to answer my question.”

“Sorry?” 

“How many did you save?” he prompted again.

“Two-hundred and ninety-seven,” Cullen replied immediately, remembering Haven.

The Brother smiled. “You were strong enough to save them. And you were strong enough to survive what happened before, or what’s to come.” He frowned as though slightly confused. “I’m never quite sure how to phrase that. The Fade is funny. Time gets all muddled. Really messes with your head if you think about it too much.” He shook his head, giving a small laugh. “Well, it happened and it is to come, I guess. And if you’re strong enough for all that, well, then I don’t think anyone can say you chose to be weak, do you?” 

“I—I suppose not,” Cullen agreed, though the memory of Bethany still haunted him. And his fears that he would fail Rosalind still crawled under his skin.

The young man shook Cullen’s hand briefly. “I’m glad I met you. Maybe I’ll come visit again some time.”

“I—I’d like that,” Cullen replied, unsure whether it was true or not. But whatever the Brother was, he didn’t appear to be an enemy.

And then the Chantry Brother turned, clasped his hands behind his back and sauntered away, whistling. Cullen tried to follow but walked head-long into an invisible wall. A cage.

He was in a psychic cage.

And the demons began to pour into the courtyard, intent on mental torture.

Just like in Kinloch Hold.

He quaked in fear as he saw Ulrich walking towards him, his arm carelessly draped across the shoulders of Solana Amell. “Ah, and here is your besotted templar, my love. How fitting that he should be the sole survivor. His blood will be rich with lyrium, making it all the easier for me to teach you how to draw on it. Go to him, my darling.” And with that Ulrich handed Solana Amell a small knife with a razor-sharp delicate point. “Learn your new craft.”

Solana gave Cullen a gentle and pitying smile. “I’m sorry it’s you,” she said softly as she approached him.

The walls of his cage dropped and he backed up. “Enchanter Amell, do not give in to temptation,” he commanded, but his words sounded foolish to his own ears.

Her smiled took on a wistful tone, and she gently shook her head at his foolishness, raising the hand that held the knife. “It is not temptation, you gorgeous boy, it is the future,” she replied.

He turned to flee, and found his way blocked. He spun round to face her, raising his sword to defend himself, though he had no idea if he would have the will to strike, when Ulrich raised his hand in a command. Cullen was instantly seized by demons. Countless demons holding him still, their claws digging into his flesh even as he cried out in pain. His sword fell and his shield was ripped from his arms.

Solana Amell drew close to him, and laid the knife along his neck. “You are brave, and handsome. And you were always kind to me,” she said in her musical voice. “I am sorry. If it helps, I will always remember you fondly. And your sacrifice will help me make a new world where mages can be safe. Isn’t that what you always wanted, gorgeous boy? To protect mages?” And then she nicked his vein. The blood ran down his neck, and with it all his biggest insecurities and worst fears flowed free. Easily read by a blood mage.

And there was Ulrich, to teach Solana how to read.

The lesson began.

*

Cullen screamed himself into wakefulness, a clammy sweat encasing his body, his legs knotted in his woolen blanket. He pushed damp curls from his forehead and sat up in bed, breathing hard and scanning the room for threat.

But he was in Skyhold. A full moon cast a glow around his small, sparse, loft bedroom through the hole in the roof above. He fell back against the mattress, staring up at the mellow navy-blue sky and taking deep lung-fulls of crisp mountain air.

It was a dream. Only a dream. His pulse slackened, and his breath returned to normal. It was a dream. And he had survived it. I am strong enough for this, he thought, and wondered where that thought had come from.

Still, it heartened him. And while he could not find sleep again, he did choose to lie in his bed and let his weary body rest until the sky above turned pink. 

Then he rose, collected his bag, and prepared to journey to the Storm Coast to hear with the former templar of Ostwick had to say.

He was sure he did not want to hear it.

But he would be strong.

*

Rosalind felt physically ill. She had no eaten or slept in two days. Not since they had found the Wardens in the Western Approach.

Not since they had seen blood magic and demon enslavement. 

Stillness reigned around the fire in camp, each person lost in their own thoughts. The silence was only broken by the methodical noise of Hawke sharpening his blades.

“Well,” Varric suddenly announced, “I’m turning in.”

Cassandra nodded. Unable to deal with the constant verbal berating from Sera, and the non-verbal, but no less deafening, thundercloud of judgement from Blackwall, Rosalind had sent them both back to Skyhold and requested Cassandra and Dorian meet her in the Western Approach. She needed friends around her now. And, while they could do little to comfort her, she was glad of their presence. Of their implicit trust in her abilities and judgements.

“We should all retire,” Cassandra said. “We need to begin riding early tomorrow if we hope to make Skyhold by nightfall.”

Rosalind didn’t respond. She just stared into the fire, thinking of demons, blood magic, and the monstrous energy that flowed through her veins. Mages were dangerous. Maybe they should all be caged. Or put to death.

But she didn’t want to believe that. She clung to the promise she’d made to Max. She needed to be brave. She wasn’t a monster. Wouldn’t be a monster.

“And what will we do when we arrive in Skyhold,” Alastair asked, impatience reverberating in his voice. “We shouldn’t be heading to Skyhold. We need to go to Adamant. We need to put an end to this. Now.” His voice was hard. Ugly unnatural lines drawing tight across the boyish features of his face as it pulled into a snarl. He hunched his shoulders and glowered.

“Adamant is a fortress. It’s impenetrability is legend.” Cassandra growled back. “Or are such rumours unreliable?”

Alastair gave Cassandra a murderous glare, and hunched his shoulder further. “They are not,” he acknowledged. “But that doesn’t me we should concede the battle before it has even begun.”

“He has a point,” Hawke drawled, not raising his gaze from his task.

“And what do you suggest? That the six of us lay siege to Adamant?” Cassandra scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

“We don’t need a siege,” Hawke replied, still focused on sharpening his blades. “We just need to get inside. Take out the leader and some of the higher generals. Sow seeds of confusion. In my experience, a small elite force often succeeds where armies do not.”

“Oh, is that your experience?” Cassandra’s eyebrows drew together. 

“It is,” Hawke looked up, green eyes flashing dangerously.

“And was that your experience when you helped Anders infiltrate the Chantry?” 

“Hey, now,” Varric broke in, “This is foolish,” Alastair said at the same time, but Hawke had already jumped to his feet, hand wrapped tight around the hilt of his dagger. Cassandra was on her feet too, sliding into a fighting stance.

“No,” Rosalind shouted, casting a wall of frost between them before anyone else could move. It rose lightening fast, causing both Hawke and Cassandra to jump back. It overwhelmed their small campfire, quenching it with a small hiss. She still hadn’t risen to her feet. She didn’t bother to look at either of them, or at the wall of frost still rising between them. “We are better than this,” she said softly. “We have to be.” I made a promise, she added silently. 

But could she keep it? The promise to Max. The promise to the Inquisition. The countless promises to herself. 

“The Inquisitor is right,” Cassandra huffed out a sigh and sat down, hard. “I owe you an apology, Hawke. Whatever happened in the past, you are here now, serving the Inquisition. As we all must if we intend to restore sanity.”

Hawke sheathed his dagger with unnecessary force. “I did not know what Anders intended when he asked me to distract the Chantry sisters.” He tore his hands through his hair, slowly sitting down. “Truly, I did not.”

“None of us did, Hawke,” Varric said gently, patting his friend’s shoulder. “You aren’t to blame for what Anders did.” He gave Cassandra a piercing glare. She had the grace to look ashamed.

“Dorian,” Rosalind called softly, “can you do something about this?” She gestured at the frost wall, now a good six feet high.

“Of course, darling.” Dorian drained his mug of tea. He cast a fire wall, vaporizing her frost on impact. In a few moments, the frost wall was gone. “I suggest we all follow Varric’s excellent advice and get some rest,” Dorian said. “I’d say things will look brighter in the morning, but that’s highly unlikely, given the circumstances. Still, it’s quite possible that things won’t look bleaker in the morning, and that’s something, right? And this time tomorrow we can all have a good bath and wash the stink of demon blood off, which I, for one, am looking forward to.”

“But what are we going to do about the demons?” Alastiar asked again. But his voice sounded less accusatory this time, and more like a plea for guidance. He looked longingly at Rosalind, and she feared she was about to fail to live up to his expectations just as she was failing Blackwall. She wasn’t a symbol, or a holy figure, whatever others might think.

Still, she would try.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” She replied, frowning. She’d been able to think of little else for two days. “I think we have two options. We can follow Hawke’s plan,” Hawke flashed her a grin, “But,” she cautioned, “in order to do so we’d need a lot more research. We’d need to identify a way into Adamant, like we had with Redcliffe. And there is no guarantee such a way exists, or that we could come to know about it. If you, Alastair, don’t know a way in, then I don’t see what luck those of us who aren’t grey wardens will have finding a way in.”

Alastair nodded, looking tired. “I don’t know any way in that is not the front door. But perhaps Warden Blackwall does?”

“Yes, I’ll ask him when we get to Skyhold, and I’ll requisition everything I can find on the fortress itself. However, I think it unlikely that Hawke’s plan will succeed. I think,” she took another deep breath, “we may have to resign ourselves to a siege. And, for a siege, we’ll need more forces.”

“So we marshal the troops at Skyhold? Should we send a raven to Curly to get ready?” Varric asked.

“No,” Rosalind said. She hadn’t intended to reveal this part of her plan until they were back home, but couldn’t see any way to avoid it. “Even with all the forces at Skyhold, we don’t have enough to take Adamant. We need allies.”

“Orlais?” Dorian asked mildly. “Two birds with one stone, as the saying goes? Warn Empress Celene and gain an ally at the same time?”

Rosalind gave him a weak smile. “That was my thinking,” she replied. “It seems the most logical path, yes.”

“Warn Empress Celene?” Hawke asked.

“Oh, of her assassination,” Dorain waive a hand airily. Hawke raised his eyebrows. “We saw it when a time-spell went wrong and we were transported a year into the future. Saw this demon army too, so it happens,” Dorian gave a shrug. 

“Oh,” Hawke said weakly, “of course.”

“So now we must wait while you travel to Orlais and try to secure an alliance with them?” Alastair snarled. “And how long will that take? How many wardens will be murdered in the meantime? And how many demons summoned?” He shook his head. “You’ve lost the battle before it’s even begun.”

Rosalind licked her lips. Alastair had no reason to trust her, but she needed his trust. She needed him to follow her to Skyhold. If he didn’t. . . if he headed for Adamant alone—as he had headed for the Western Approach alone—all might be lost. The Wardens might learn that the Inquisition planned to stop them. And then, the dark future she and Dorian had seen might become a reality.

She met Dorian’s gaze and held it for a moment. He gave her an imperceptible nod, letting her know he supported her, and was ready to help if she needed it. She smiled in gratitude, and then turned to the task at hand. 

After all, Alastair had a weakness. His faith.

She walked over and knelt before Alastair, sinking to her knees before his seated form and bowing her head, as though in prayer. He shifted uncomfortably, but she didn’t move, waiting for the tension to build.

“My lady—“ Alastair began, when he could no longer stand the silence.

“Yes,” she cut him off softly, but in a voice that carried across the desert. “we must wait. Because we must succeed. Dorian and I saw what happens if we fail. We cannot fail.” She raised her eyes to meet his, allowing all her fear at the dark future she’d beheld to show plainly on her face. “So yes, I am asking you to wait. Andraste’s Herald is asking you to wait, Alastair.”

He opened his mouth, as if to protest. 

She reached out and took his hands between her own, squeezing them tight and willing him to hear her, “Wait,” she said again, before he could speak, “and I will bring you an army. Wait,” her voice rose with a conviction she did not feel, “and I promise you, Adamant will fall.”

He took a deep breath, and the hard lines of his face softened. His eyes lit from within with that impossible faith that so frightened her. “Andraste’s Herald,” he breathed, “I will wait.” And he bowed his head.

“Thank you,” Rosalind whispered leaning her forehead against his own for a brief moment, before releasing his hands. She stood, and walked to her tent as quickly as dignity would allow. She didn’t look back on her party. 

No one spoke or moved as she passed.

With shaking fingers she closed the flaps of her tent behind her, and burrowed into her sleeping roll, closing her eyes tight. 

The weight of faith and impossible promises heavy against her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long delay, and I don't know when I'll be able to update again. Summer is very busy, and I'm traveling for most of the month of August. Thank you to those who stick with me nonetheless. I appreciate your willingness to wait for my erratic updating schedule.
> 
> Also, yeah, it's Alastair and Hawke. So. . . Adamant is going to be emotional. You have been warned!


	21. The Mage Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long long delay. I've got the next chapter half-written now, so hopefully not so long to wait for the next one. Hope you enjoy!

Cullen found himself seated in a recently vacated mess hall where the Blades of Hassarian regularly broke their fast with a jittery young man on the other side of the table. The oddly shady organization had been more than willing to facilitate this meeting with the former templar who claimed to know something of Rosalind’s past. The lady Trevelyan had evidently bested their former leader and they’d sworn allegiance to her. Leliana had sent a raven identifying Cullen as one of Rosalind’s agents, and the Blades had immediately placed themselves at his service. It was odd. It felt wrong. It was clear that the Blades did not see themselves as working for the Inquisition, but rather as working for Rosalind herself.

And yet here he was talking to a young man about Rosalind’s past and behind her back. True, she hadn’t forbade any of them from seeking out information about her. And yet. . .

The young man squirmed in his seat, staring at his fingers clasped on the table before him, white-knuckled.

Too young, Cullen thought. He must have been a raw recruit when he served in Ostwick. “Perhaps we should begin?” he said. “I understand you wish to join the Inquisition.”

“Yes, Knight-Captain,” the man said, standing and giving a smart salute.

Cullen waved this away with a hand. “Please,” he said, “I am not part of the order anymore, and you are not currently under my command.” He gestured at the chair on the other side of the table. 

The young man hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and sat down again, stiffly.

“What’s your name?” Cullen asked.

“Roberts, Knight-Cap. . . uh. . . ser.” 

“Roberts. I understand you want to join us, but are unsure of your welcome. . . ” Cullen left the sentence hanging there, not quite a question.

“Knigh-Cap. . . Comm. . . Ser,” the man stuttered, “yes. I—I was there. . . at her harrowing . . . the Lady Herald’s—lady Trevelyan’s. . . ser.” His face turned a deep crimson of shame, and his hands began to shake. He clutched them together, lacing his fingers tightly until the knuckles turned white. It looked as though he was holding on for dear life. “So, as you can imagine. . . well. . . I don’t . . .”

“The harrowing where three apprentices where harrowed at once?” Cullen asked, remembering that conversation with Leliana in Haven, ages ago.

The young man licked his lips, and nodded, dropping his eyes from Cullen’s gaze.

“Where only Rosalind survived. . .” Cullen whispered.

The young man nodded again. “I—I . . . I should have known. We all should have known. It wasn’t right. They said not to talk about it. But. . . but I know. It wasn’t right. That first boy, he was turning into an abomination, all right. And there was nothing for it. But. . . but the second. . . ” he was now gazing past Cullen, staring at a horror only he could see. “I’d never seen an abomination before. But. . . but. . .”

Cullen felt cold fingers of fear whisper down his spine. The man was shaking now, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Clearing his throat, Cullen stood up and came around the table. “Attention, recruit,” he barked.

The young man jumped to attention immediately.

“Report,” he said in softer tones, “from the beginning.”

The man glanced at Cullen briefly, before nodding. He swung his eyes back straight ahead, staring out a narrow window at the rain battering the coast. His hand remained at attention, fisted at his sides. Tears slowly leaked out of the corners of his eyes and slid down his face, dropping off of his chin.

He reported.

*

Cullen felt chilled to the bone that evening as he sat before his small campfire, unwilling to crawl into his tent. Unwilling to face the nightmares that might well await him there.

Robert’s report had been horrifying, and horrifyingly familiar. Short-handed and desperate, the Ostwick circle had made the decision to harrow three apprentices at once. They should never have done so, but the circle had too many apprentices, and not enough templars to watch them. A few more past their harrowing would lighten the load significantly.

Why they were short-handed, Cullen wasn’t sure. Why they hadn’t asked for help from a neighbouring circle, or petitioned the Chantry for aid, he didn’t know. And Roberts’ couldn’t begin to answer these questions. The boy had been a raw recruit himself. Scarcely past his own vigil, with his first taste of lyrium still wet on his lips when they’d sent him to oversee Rosalind’s harrowing. 

Roberts, and a few other young templars, none of whom had any experience with a harrowing before were sent to stand guard over three apprentices. Their Knight-Captain had stood with them. But she was the only one who had any experience.

When the first apprentice began to turn, becoming an abomination before the eyes of veritable children, the templar recruits had panicked, drawn their swords and sunk them deep into the apprentice’s belly. He died without ever making the full transition to abomination, and without ever waking up.

And that might have been the end of it. Just another sad and horrifying tale of a harrowing gone wrong. Only, this poor apprentice wasn’t alone. He had two companions.

The second boy had moved, or cried out in his sleep, or something. Someone had yelled ‘abomination’ and the terrified recruits sprang into action. 

Roberts couldn’t say if the boy had showed any signs of turning or not. He couldn’t remember. His commanders told him after that he had done nothing wrong, but there was a horrified doubt in Roberts’ eyes. He feared he had participated in a slaughter.

That boy died too. Killed by a terrified mob of young recruits.

And then the recruits had turned on Rosalind. The Knight-Captain was screaming for them to stop. She stood between them and Rosalind herself, who had awoken to chaos, and was now preparing to defend herself.

“She was casting,” Roberts had whispered. “She was casting when the Knight-Captain hit her with a smite more powerful ‘n I’d ever seen. She fell to the floor, . She fell, and must’ve bit her own tongue, or something. She coughed out blood all over the floor. And our knight-captain stood over her, sword drawn, ordering us to back down.”

“She protected her,” Cullen clarified.

Roberts nodded. “Lady Trevelyan had passed her harrowing. Only. . . only we were so afraid. . . we didn’t see. . . we thought. . .” he hung his head, “we were gonna kill her.”

Cullen scrubbed his hands over his face, thinking over everything he knew of Rosalind Trevelyan and adding to it this extra piece of information.

She had survived her harrowing and awoken to two dead mages, one half-transformed into an abomination, and a collection of terrified templars intent on killing her. 

She had awoken to a Knight-Captain immobilizing her before she could defend herself, and standing over her brandishing a sword.

And less than a week later she had fled the circle. She had fled the circle and disappeared for the better part of a year.

“Of course she did,” Cullen thought. Of course she did. And of course she was wary around him. And of course she had chosen the mages of Redcliffe over the templars. What reason did she have to trust templars?

His last words to Rosalind, and her reaction to him, plagued him now. He’d told Rosalind he was responsible for Bethany’s death. Would she think. . .

He needed to speak with her. Soon.

In the end, he had allowed Roberts to temporarily join the Inquisition, stationing him in the Hinterlands, a relatively safe area now that the rebel mages and rogue templars had been dealt with. He had also insisted Roberts speak to Mother Antonia, who was still carrying on Mother Giselle’s work in the Hinterlands. He wrote to Antonia that evening, sending a raven and explaining Robert’s situation. The man needed help, and Cullen prayed he would find it in the Chantry. He sent another raven to Josephine and Leliana. He would need their guidance in dealing with this situation, and in deciding how to approach Rosalind about it.

He had to tell her, he knew. And he would have to deal with the fall-out if she refused to allow Roberts to remain a part of the Inquisition, which she might well do, given the circumstances. Cullen didn’t much relish that conversation. Just another reminder of the circle, and the way it systematically destroyed lives. Even now. Years after it had fallen.

He hoped she would let Roberts stay. There was too much desperation in the young man, and too little hope. Roberts saw the Inquisition as a way out. If it wasn’t, if there was no place for him here, Cullen didn’t like to think what would happen next.

Wearily, he packed up his camp and prepared to head for Skyhold. There would be no sleep for him tonight.

*

Morning was subdued in camp. They ate in near-silence, and pack up their camp with great haste. Cassandra and Hawke were cordial to each other, but kept their distance. Varric was too weary to play interference, and Rosalind could hardly blame him. Dorian, too, seemed subdued, as though the blood-mage-led demon army had affected him as deeply as it had her.

It felt like a personal attack. Like a sharp reminder of why mages should be feared.

Alastiar, his jaw set, packed with ruthless efficiency and set a gruelling pace as they headed back to Skyhold. Rosalind allowed him to do so, hoping the rest of the party could keep up. If they rode hard and rested little, they may well make it back before the day was out. And she didn’t relish the thought of another night in camp.

But, no matter how much Alastair insisted on pushing, one could only push a horse so far. By mid-afternoon they needed to re st or risk damaging the horses. Rosalind insisted they stop, and both Dorian and Cassandra backed her up. 

They hobbled the horses, removed the gear, and gathered feed and water, before retreating a small distance to rest themselves. Silence fell among them again, all the more oppressive now as it was not punctuated by the sound of jangling reins, squeaking leather and pounding hooves. 

Alastair stood up again, unable to stay seated, impatience visibly vibrating through his body. “I’m. . . I’m going to scout ahead,” he said, before tromping off across the plains.

With an exasperated sigh, Cassandra stood up as well. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” she said softly, before following the Warden’s retreating form. Rosalind nodded, grateful. She doubted that Alastiar was about to desert them. His faith in her, and in Andraste, still seemed very much in tact. More likely was that he simply couldn’t rest, given what he knew. And Rosalind herself could well understand this.

After a moment, Varric fished out a pack of cards and shuffled them. “Anyone up for Wicked Grace?” 

Dorian nodded wearily, “I’ll play a round.”

“Forstbite?” Varric asked.

Rosalind shook her head her maker-be-damned hair falling in her eyes. She doubted she could keep her mind on the game, and she wasn’t much good at cards, in any case. Fear was like a living thing coiling around her heart now. If it weren’t for three sleepless nights, she too might be tromping through the plains while she waiting for her horse to refresh itself simply because sitting still was intolerable. As it was, sitting upright was nearly all she was capable of.

Instead, she decided to do something practical. She moved a little way off, far enough to be mostly out of sight between the trees, but close enough that a sharp yell would bring help, should she need it. She sat down, and began fishing in her bag for her small utility knife.

She heard a branch crack and she had already cast a barrier and was rising to her feet when she realized Hawke was approaching, hands held open before him in mock-surrender, a lazy grin on his face. She felt a blush stain her cheeks. But part of her appreciated that Hawke didn’t look afraid upon seeing a mage rising and preparing for battle. Quite the opposite, actually.

“I—I thought you were playing cards,” Rosalind said.

Hawke shrugged his shoulders and stretched out the kinks from riding. “I’ve taken enough of the Altus’s and Dwarf’s good coin” he laughed. “I thought you might like some company?” 

Rosalind nodded, lowing her barrier, “That. . . that would be nice,” she said, and was surprised to find it was true. She didn’t very much want to be alone right now, even though she had sought out solitude the moment they’d hobbled the horses.

He moved over and sat beside Rosalind, gesturing at the bag at her feet as she sank back down to a seat. “Lost something?” he asked.

“My knife,” she replied, returning to her search.

A sound of metal singing free of a sheath rang through the air, and Hawke’s hand appeared in Rosalind’s vision, a small ornamental knife laid across his palm. “Borrow mine,” he said, “I’ve got enough of them,” he gestured at the blades riding on his back, with a wicked smile that set Rosalind’s heart racing, no matter how much she scolded herself for such a reaction.

Rosalind smiled back, again without meaning to. Her damned body had ideas of its own where this man was concerned. “Thanks,” she said, taking the handle of the knife.

“Sure,” Hawke replied, with an easy shrug.

She seized a clump of her own hair at her forehead and raised the blade, intending to hack off the damned locks that stuck to her brow, soaked up her sweat, and got in her eyes.

“Whoa,” Hawke’s hand clamped down on her wrist, “Andraste’s ass, what are you doing?”

“Cutting my hair,” Rosalind responded, thinking it was pretty obvious.

“Holy shit. . .” Hawke’s eyes widened amidst their sea of inky tattoos. “Is this where your interesting hair style comes from?”

“I. . . “ Rosalind shrugged. “Yes. It was necessary after the circle’s fell. Long hair was . . . a liability.”

“Okay, but. . . do you want this style?”

Rosalind frowned, running her fingers through her uneven, impossibly messy, hair. “I. . . I hadn’t thought about it. . .” 

“Right,” Hawke laughed, “why would you? Varric tells me you’re a scholar. Why fuss over appearance, right? The books won’t judge you.”

“Well. . . it didn’t seem to matter much when . . . “

“When the world was ending and the sky was exploding?” Hawke said softly, his eyes holding far too much understanding.

“I suppose,” Rosalind said, weakly.

“Well, little scholar,” Hawke reached up, and brushed one of those damned locks of hair out of her eyes, “far be it from me to tell a woman how to style her hair. But I did have a sister,” his voice was oddly strained at that, and punctuated with that sharp, annoying laugh, “So I do know a thing or to. . . if you’ll allow me?”

Rosalind nodded mutely, not quite sure what she was allowing him to do, but knowing that she didn’t mind her unruly hair nearly as much when his fingers were gently combing through it.

“Right,” Hawke said. He eased the knife out of her grasp, as though he were gingerly taking away a murder weapon. He turned and fished around in his own waist-pouch for a moment. Then he shifted closer to her, sitting up on his knees half-behind her, and gently pulled a small comb through her tangled locks.

It felt wonderful. Rosalind closed her eyes and felt Hawke’s strong fingers, and the tiny comb work their way through her hair, gently smoothing it out. “There,” he murmured, his fingers sinking deep into her hair, and running along the back of her neck, sending gentle tremors down the length of her spine. Her pulse beat with a deafening wildness in her ears, and she wondered what it would feel like if he weren’t so gentle. If those strong, sure fingers became just a little more insistent. A little more rough.

She wanted to find out. 

“Now, the problem was you vision, was it not, little scholar?” Hawke whispered, his mouth startlingly close to her ear, his breath tickling the side of her cheek, and sending new exquisite shudders through her body, as a warm, heavy feeling pooled in the base of her stomach.

She fought to keep the shivers from showing, swallowed hard, and nodded, knowing her voice would betray her if she spoke.

Hawke gave a low-throated chuckle, and Rosalind feared she had betrayed herself already. “Then, we will clear this away, with no need for a knife. Hair like this, little scholar, should be treated with care.” And he began gently pulling sections of her hair off her forehead and weaving them together into two tight braids. He worked fast, securing them with a leather thong she supposed he’d had in his waist-pouch as well.

Rosalind reaching up, running her fingers over Hawke’s handiwork. The french braids extended to the crown of her head, where they were both tied securely, keeping her forelocks well off her forehead. The rest of her hair, while still uneven and probably messy, was smooth as silk in her hands.

“My. . . my thanks,” she said, holding her voice steady with an effort.

Hawke’s smile was of genuine warmth. “Of course. Bethany used to like to have her hair braided, sometimes.” Rosalind noticed that Hawke gave no sharp laugh at the mention of his sister’s name this time. “Of course, she had a lot more hair. And my mother was often too busy. And Carver” his voice hitched slightly there, “well, he didn’t think braiding hair was very masculine. Silly fool. Learning to style a woman’s hair has given me many interesting experiences,” his eyes darkened and heated, staring at her hungrily.

“Oh. . .” Rosalind said, and though she tried, she was unable to come up with anything else to say.

Here Hawke did laugh, “Well, how many people can say they were the personal stylist of Andraste’s Herald, hmm? By the state of your hair, I’d say I’m the only one.”

Rosalind laughed too. “Yes, I suppose you are,” she said.

Hawke stood up at that, “Come on, little scholar. I think it’s time we got this not-so-merry band moving again, don’t you?”

“Are you coming all the way back to Skyhold with us, then?” Rosalind asked, collecting her things and rising to her feet. She’d been meaning to find a way to ask Hawke that for a while.

Hawke’s brows came together in a frown, but he didn’t seem angry. Just pensive. “Yeah, Roz, I think I am. I don’t much want to cross paths with your Commander. And I’m not too happy to be sharing a camp with your Seeker. But. . . well shit. . . the world is ending and the sky’s exploding, isn’t it?”

Rosalind nodded. “Still . . . Bethany. . . I’d understand if. . .”

Hawke sucked air through his teeth in a hiss, frowning deeply now, his inky black tattoos closing ranks around his eyes. “Look, Roz, your Commander may not have struck the killing blow. But, he did leave Bethany and the other mages defenceless against the attacks of his knight-commander. He rounded them up, put them in that damned circle, and left them no recourse. And he had no love lost for them. I doubt very much that any of that has changed.”

 

“I know,” Rosalind whispered, thinking of Cullen’s fears of her. Thinking of the way he recoiled from her touch, her kiss. Thinking of how he tried to drive her away the last time she spoke with him. 

“But this is bigger than the maker-be-damned circle, isn’t it?” He scratched at his chin thoughtfully, staring off into the distance, nodding to himself, and not appearing to expect an answer from her. “Still,” he said pensively, “might be a sound plan to keep me well away from Rutherford, if you insist on working with him. And, once this damn war is over, all bets are off.” Here Hawke gave a dangerous grin, unconsciously wrapping his fingers around the hilt of the dagger on his hip.

 

Rosalind reached resting her hand on Hawke’s sinewy forearm. She needed to explain to him—or to herself—why she continued working with Cullen. “I won’t defend the Commander’s actions in Kirkwall,” she spoke slowly, feeling her way carefully through what she wished to say. “But, for what it is worth, I do think he believed the circle to be the safest place for mages. Clearly he was in error, but—“

“The circle,” Hawke snarled the word as though it were blasphemy. “Mages can’t be caged effectively. They can’t be threatened, or chained, unless there’s great need. You’re commander is a monster, but that doesn’t make him unique. The circle creates monsters. I know that. I know mages. Don’t forget, I grew up with them. The threat of abominations always weighed heavily on father’s mind.”

“Oh. . .” Rosalind stared at Hawke, startled. “Malcolm Hawke?” 

He arched an eyebrow, shifting abruptly from anger to amused. “What do you know about my father, little scholar?” He asked.

“Well. . .” Rosalind hesitated, unsure of what to reveal. She had, of course, thoroughly researched Hawke upon learning who he was. Leliana had aided greatly in the gathering of information.

Hawke laughed again, as though well aware of Rosalind’s research. He gently lifted Rosalind’s hand from his forearm, loosely clasping it between his own strong fingers, before releasing it. Her palm tingled distractingly.

“Let me get you started,” Hawke said conversationally, “he was an apostate for nearly twenty-five years. And he never became an abomination. He raised an apostate daughter who never saw a harrowing until your commander,” he growled the title through clenched teeth, “saw fit to abduct her. And she never became an abomination, despite being years older than is normal for an unharrowed mage. Do you know what I think, Roz?”

“You think there’s another way. Some way to deal with the mage problem other than the circle?” Rosalind said, a small glimmer of hope burning clean, fighting against the fear and despair that had been riding her so hard since encountering the Warden mages.

“I do,” Hawke confirmed. “But more than that,” his voice depend, “I don’t think mages really are a problem at all.”

Rosalind stared, open-mouthed, not knowing what to say. 

Hawke smiled his lazy, arrogant smile. “Come on, Roz. We’ve got a world to save!” And he turned and headed back to camp.

Rosalind, stunned, trailed behind.


	22. Delayed

The mood was sombre when Cullen entered the War room. He’d arrived home and barely laid down his things when a messenger arrived announcing Rosalind’s return. She had called a council meeting, immediately.

He raced to the war room in an effort to get there before the other council members. He wanted a moment alone with Rosalind to try to apologize for his earlier behaviour. To try to explain himself. He hardly knew what he intended to say, but he had to say something.

As he pushed open the door, all thoughts of apology or atonement fled in the face of what he saw.

Rosalind wore dirty, rumpled travelling clothes and was covered in grime. Her staff was still strapped to her back, and her boots still bore spurs. It appeared she had literally leapt from her horse into the war room. Whatever this meeting was about, it was urgent.

She leaned her hands heavily on the war table, shoulders hunched and head bowed. She lifted her head as he entered. “Commander,” she held his gaze with bloodshot eyes, filled with an unfathomable weariness and despair. “I fear I’m about to give you an impossible task.”

Cullen tensed. “I stand ready to serve,” he said, forcing the words out through a mouth that had suddenly gone dry.

She pushed off from the war table with some effort. “I need your strategic guidance to,” she paused and closed her eyes, before plunging on, “to lay siege to Adamant.”

Cullen drew a sharp breath, fear churning like a living thing inside his belly. “Adamant?”

She nodded, then gave a small, hopeless laugh. “Adamant,” she repeated. “In order to stop Corypheus from seizing control of the Grey Wardens and creating an unstoppable demon army.”

Cullen gasped again, “the demon army you saw in the future originates in Adamant?”

“So it would seem,” Rosalind said, scrubbing at her face with filthy hands.

Cullen sat down heavily on the corner of the war table, closing his eyes. “Andraste preserve us,” he whispered. 

“I know,” she replied, sitting beside him, her hands held loosely in her lap. He turned to look at her, but she continued gazing at the rough stone walls of Skyhold. “Adamant is impenetrable,” she said in a whisper. “It has never fallen. But. . .” her throat working furiously, as though she were choking on panic, “But. . . but I made a promise.” She turned to look at him then, her black eyes filled with a frightening determination. She reached out and took one of his hands in her own, in a tight, desperate, almost painful grip. “Commander, if I brought you an army the seize of Orlais’, could. . . could you do it?” she whispered.

“Orlais?” Cullen asked stupidly, unable to keep up with her train of thought. He was too unsettled by the panic and exhaustion he could see writ large in her every gesture and expression. 

“A sensible plan,” Leliana’s voice rang out, causing both Cullen and Rosalind to jump. The Inquisitor dropped his hand instantly and stood, straightening her shoulders and smoothing down her battle robes, as though those small actions could erase what was plain to see. 

She needs rest, Cullen thought. She needs it badly.

Leliana and Josephine stood in the entrance, and had apparently been there long enough to hear the news.

“Yes, gaining allies before we lay siege to Adamant is necessary, and Orlais seems the obvious choice,” Josephine added, her nose buried in some papers as usual. “And as luck would have it, I think I’ve secured us an invite to the Winter Palace’s summer fete.”

“Gaspard?” Leliana asked, as she moved to her usual place before the war table, loosely clasping her hands behind her.

“Yes,” Josephine replied. “He is quite interested in making an entrance, and arriving with the Inquisitor on his arm would certainly do that. The soldiers you sent along with our delegation were well chosen, Commander. Duke Gaspard seems to view us as a reputable operation, but still sensational enough to allow him some extra attention. Thank you.”

“Uh. . . of course,” Cullen nodded, standing up himself and settling into his usual stance. He wrapped his hands around the pommel of his short sword to keep them from shaking.

“So the duke wants to escort me to the summer fete sight-unseen?” Rosalind asked, looking down at her travel-worn attire. “Perhaps that’s for the best,” she smirked. “In my current state I may draw more attention than he’s expecting. But if it gets us in the door, so be it.”

Josephine waved her hand airily, “never fear, Lady Inquisitor,” she said, “we have plenty of time to get you properly attired and coiffed for the event. I will commission new garments, in fact,” she tapped her quill against her cheek, lost in thought, “something suitable for such an occasion, but that still portrays the grave authority Andraste has tasked us with,” she made a note on her clip board.

Rosalind stilled, her face going white. “How much time?” she asked, her eyes flitting between Leliana and Josephine.

“The summer fete is held in a fortnight, lady,” Leliana replied.

Rosalind shook her head, her hands raking through her hair, tangling in small braids that Cullen noticed she was using to keep her forelocks from falling across her brow. The braids pulled out, caught in her fingers, leaving her looking quite wild. “A fortnight?” she whispered, her eyes filling with an unfathomable despair. “We can’t wait that long.”

Josephine frowned in concern, “I’m sorry, Rosalind, but—”

“No,” Rosalind cut her off, yanking her hands free of the tangled mess of her hair, slicing the air savagely with her fingers as she spoke in a rushed staccato. “The mages of the Grey Wardens are being corrupted now. They are being manipulated into using blood magic and calling demons. The demon army is rising. Now. We have to do something. Now.” She was shouting, gesticulating wildly. Cullen could feel Rosalind’s electricity prickling his skin. Every part of his templar training was screaming at him to silence her now before Rosalind unwittingly released an electricity storm in the war room.

Josephine took a step back, clutching her clip board to her chest, eyes wide and pupils dilated with fear. Even fearless Leliana paled slightly.

Rosalind looked at the three of them with wild haunted eyes for a moment, the roar of her magic filling the room. He could see a deep pain suffuse her features as the three of them backed away from her in wariness. Could see how their fear of her struck her to her core. And he remembered her speech at the memorial in Haven. Remembered her saying that only her brother Max had ever accepted her as she was.

His heart jerked painfully in his chest, as though attempting to rip free of the cage of his body, go to her side, and provide what comfort a bruised, bloody and broken thing could. He physically took a step in her direction, uncertain if she would see the movement as an overture of friendship, or as a threat from a templar.

But before he could reach out to her, before he could speak, Rosalind closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

And suddenly everything shifted. The magic was still there, still filling the room, but it was subdued. Buried somehow. Like thin ice forming over a raging river. Cullen doubted that Leliana or Josephine could feel it at all anymore. Rosalind folded her hands demurely before her, and Cullen doubted the others could see her nails digging into her own skin. Her smooth mask of neutrality settled over her face, and she bowed her head, the perfect contrite mage. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “But you must understand. It has to be now,” she repeated again, but this time her voice was calm.

“My lady,” Josephine said kindly, though she could not conceal the slight tremor in her voice, “I’m afraid what you ask is impossible. We can gain no audience with Celene without Gaspard. And even Gaspard himself is not welcome at the Winter Palace save during the fete. There are fears that he is trying to usurp the throne, and Celene would not welcome him in her presence at any other time. He is only extended an invitation at the fete because Celene is trying to make peace in Orlais.”

“I will send agents,” Leliana broke in, “to monitor the situation in Adamant. But you must agree, Rosalind, that a failed siege will do as much damage as waiting may. And we cannot hope to succeed without the aid of Orlais.”

Still, Rosalind insisted, but gently, calmly, emotionlessly. Cullen watched the three of them go around in circles two more times, examining different options, and returning to the reality. Through it all Rosalind remained unnaturally calm, her magic curiously muffled. Raging furiously just below a placid, icy surface.

His templar training insisted she was dangerous. But he studiously ignored it, refusing to act.

No matter how many scenarios they tried, there was no way to gain an audience with Celene sooner. They would have to wait a fortnight.

Finally, Rosalind accepted it. “Forgive me,” she said again. “I have not slept well in. . .” she frowned, “in a while,” she finished lamely. “And what I saw in the Western Approach. . . it has truly terrified me. But I see the wisdom of your council. If we must wait, then we must wait. But, once we have Orlais’ support, we must be ready to act.”

Leliana nodded, “I agree. So, we need a plan for the siege in place, no?” 

All three of them turned to Cullen, who felt his mouth grow dry at the prospect. “Of course,” he said, “I . . . I will consider the matter carefully.”

“Commander,” Rosalind was more tentative now, “Can this be done?”

Cullen looked at her exhausted, bloodshot eyes. In truth, he didn’t know. But Rosalind needed him now. Was relying on him. And he would not let her down. His battered heart would not allow it. “I will find a way,” he said with a confidence he did not feel.

She nodded, and relaxed a bit.

“My lady,” Leliana began, “this plan has no hope of success unless you can win over Orlais. And in order to do that, you need to play the part of the noble woman to perfection. Can that be done?”

Rosalind gave a mirthless laugh. “It’s hard to believe, looking at me right now, I’ll admit,” she gestured at her soiled robes and unruly hair, the braids now truly fallen to ruin,“but this is the first task the Inquisition has asked of me that I was literally born to do. Yes, Sister Nightingale, I can be charming. I can dance. I can follow all the courtly niceties. I believe that I can win them over. However, some guidance from the lady Ambassador and Madame de Fer would not, I think, be amiss.”

“I agree,” Leliana said with a smile.

And so the discussion ended with plans for Cullen and Leliana to work on the siege, approaching Blackwall for any council he could share, while Josephine and Vivienne worked on refining Rosalind’s noble demeanour.

“There is one more matter,” Rosalind said, just before the meeting ended. “Ser Hawke and Warden Alastair will take up residence in Skyhold with us until the siege, at least. Arrangements will need to be made. . .” she trailed off, eyes darting between Cullen and Josephine.

Arrangements would need to be made to keep Hawke away from Cullen. The unspoken message hung in the air.

“Of course,” Josephine said, her own soft brown eyes darting to Cullen’s. “Spare not another thought for it, Inquisitor. I will see to their accommodations and make sure they are suitably comfortable.”

Rosalind nodded. “Thank you,” she said.

“It will be wonderful to see Alastair again, after all this time,” Leliana said with a smile filled with genuine warmth. “I am so grateful you convinced him to join with us.”

Rosalind nodded again, blanching to a sickly shade of grey. “I. . . I made a promise” she whispered. But whatever that promise was, she didn’t elaborate.

“Well,” Josephine said after a moment’s hesitation. “If there is nothing else?”

There wasn’t, save for Cullen’s failed attempt at an apology. Everyone turned, filing out of the war room, intent on their own business. 

Before he lost his nerve, Cullen caught up with Rosalind in the great hall. She was evidently headed to her quarters. “My lady,” he called out as she mounted the stairs to the dais. 

Rosalind paused, half-turning on the steps. “Commander?”

“I—I wondered if I might have a moment of your time.” He still needed to try to make things right between them, somehow.

He watched her straighten her shoulders again with some effort, and felt a sharp tug on the fade. He wondered if magic was all that was keeping her upright right now. He studied her carefully. But she only nodded and said “of course,” turning to face him fully.

Dull and bloodshot eyes met his own, and Cullen knew now was not the time. “It can wait,” he said softly. “Perhaps tomorrow you might grant me an audience?”

She gave a brief and grateful smile. “Of course,” she said again before turning and retreating to her quarters.

Cullen watched her go, his heart wringing itself out in his chest. She needed rest. If she didn’t rest soon, she would be a danger to herself. To them all.

The word “abomination” whispered down his spine. He shivered involuntarily.

He didn’t believe it. Rosalind was strong. She was in control. She would not give in to blood magic.

But there were so many ways for a mage to fall. And he could still feel her carefully muffled magic prickling his skin.

She needed rest. 

And it was high time he did something about that.

The door to Rosalind’s chambers swung gently closed, Cullen stared at it, lost in thought, wondering what he might do to help her. He was startled out of his thoughts by Leliana’s sharp scream. He turned, intent upon assessing the threat, all thought of Rosalind gone from his mind. 

But there was no danger. The other members of Rosalind’s away party were straggling into the great hall, having evidently dealt with the horses and gear in her absence. She must have left them in the courtyard the moment the party had arrived at Skyhold, in order to arrive at the war room so far ahead of them.

“Alastair,” Leliana cried, her voice full of such a painful joy it was startling. The spymaster, whose voice never registered much of any emotion beyond mild amusement these days, was weeping openly as she flung herself into the Warden’s arms. “It’s good to see you.”

The Warden braced himself against Leliana’s weight, wrapping his own arms around her waist. They stood for a moment, lost in this tight embrace, while a few others milled around, curious. “You too, Sister, you too,” the Warden said softly, and Cullen recognized that voice. 

He studied the man, in spite of himself, drawing closer to the two of them, and feeling his skin prickling uneasily. Though the Warden looked years older, grey already touching his temples, it was the same boyish face Cullen remembered swimming before his eyes, wearing a look of care and concern.

It was, indeed, Alastair, whom Cullen had met in Kinloch Hold. He should have realized when Rosalind gave the warden’s name. How many Alastair’s could there be?

After a moment, the two broke apart, both with damp cheeks. “I—I am sorry,” Alastair began, “a—about Phaedra. By rights, I should have—”

Leliana shook her head, holding a hand up to stop whatever Alastair was about to say. “No,” she said in a hard voice. “We’ve been through this before. No apologies. We all did what was needful.”

Alastiar bowed his head, falling silent and accepting Leliana’s words. But Cullen wondered what he had intended to say. Phaedra, the hero of Fereldon. Was it possible Alastair held himself responsible for her death? He had outranked her in the Wardens. And yet it was she, and not him, who had sacrificed herself killing the arch demon.

And why did he owe the spymaster an apology? Cullen gazed at the spymaster, remembering the rumours that had circulated after the Hero’s death, that the elf had found a measure of comfort in the arms of a chantry lay sister.

“Allow me to introduce you to the members of the Inquisition,” Leliana continued, unobtrusively wiping the moisture away from the corners of her eyes. “This is our Ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet,”

Josephine flashed a warm smile, and dropped a curtsey. Alastair gave an awkward approximation of a court bow, looking uncomfortable. The movement had all the hallmarks of a man who was not accustomed to court niceties, and Cullen could easily empathize. 

“And this is a man you may well remember,” Leliana continued, extending her arm to pull Cullen into the circle. He went, his heart already hammering. “Commander of the Inquisition forces, Ser Cullen Rutherford.”

Alastair frowned, “H—have we met, ser?”

Cullen stared at Alastair, seeing again the face of the man who had extended his hand and help Cullen rise to his feet in Kinloch Hold all those years before. To Cullen, Alastair, Leliana and the Hero of Fereldon had been saviours. Their images were tied intimately in his mind to the horrors he had suffered. He was not likely to ever forget their faces. It was almost unfathomable that Alastair would not remember him. He coughed, found his voice, and answered the warden. “Yes, Warden, we have,” he took a steadying breath, and continued, “in Kinloch hold.”

Alastair’s eyes widened in surprise. “Of course,” he said, rubbing his brow, “forgive me, ser. I didn’t remember your face. I’m glad to see you are well,” and Cullen was heartened to see the open sincerity on Alastair’s face. The warden here gave a warm smile, and extended his hand in greeting, shaking Cullen’s own.

“He’s changed quite a bit since then,” Leliana remarked, “for one thing, he used to have a beard.”

“Ah, yes,” Alastair smiled, releasing Cullen’s hand.

“For another,” Hawke’s voice rang out, “he used to be a kidnapper. Or is the word templar? I always get those two mixed up.” He shifted slightly so that all could see his form, leaning casually against the door frame, arms crossed, almost lost to the shadows.

“Hello Cullen,” Hawke said, green eyes flashing dangerously, and barring his teeth in a wolfish grin.

“Hawke,” Cullen replied in a carefully neutral voice. He widened his stance slightly, as though preparing for a battle, but did not allow himself to tighten his grip on the pommel of his sword. Whatever history they had, Cullen reminded himself, Hawke was here as an ally.

Nobody moved. It seemed as though no one was breathing. The silence was thick, and seemed to stretch on for an eternity, though it was likely only a moment. Cullen felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. 

“Well,” Josephine said with forced brightness, breaking in with her usual efficiency, “please allow me to welcome you to the Inquisition, Warden Alastair, and Ser Hawke. I will have some quarters ready for both of you within the hour.”

“Thank you,” Alastair said, looking a bit startled. “I—I don’t really need much of anything . . .”

“Don’t try to stop her, Alastair,” Leliana smiled, taking Alastair’s arm “Josie knows what she’s doing. In the meantime, why don’t I show you around? It will give us a chance to catch up.”

“That would be welcome,” Alastair smiled, and the two headed off towards the library tower.

“I’ll be in the pub,” Hawke said, pushing off from the wall abruptly and turning his back on the group. “Try not to abduct anyone while I’m gone,” he growled, glancing, once, at Cullen.

The glance was like a dagger, driving deep into Cullen’s chest. He stiffened, but made no reply.

“Are you alright, Commander?” Josephine asked, laying her hand gently on Cullen’s shoulder once the others had gone.

Cullen gave a curt nod, but still said nothing, not trusting his voice, and not knowing what to say. 

“Commander—” she began, but Cullen didn’t deserve her kindness, couldn’t bear to hear it.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said making his exit as swiftly as decency would allow before she could say anything more.

He made it to his office without running into anyone else, closed the doors and leaned heavily against the table, breathing hard.

He deserved Hawke’s hatred, and the man’s taunts. He deserved no less for failing Bethany. 

But he would not—he would NOT—fail Rosalind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, but I've got most of the next chapter written too, so should have it up soon. So, two short chapters in a few weeks, instead of one long chapter after several months, lol!
> 
> The next chapter should be a bit fluffier. I feel like things have gotten a bit weighty over the last few chapters!!
> 
> Thanks to those who have stuck with me, and especially those who take the time to give a Kudos or comment. I really appreciate it!


	23. An Evening of Blushes

She was cold, and uncomfortable. Her arms felt numb. After a quick examination, she realized that it was because they were bound before her, and chained to the floor. She was lying on the floor of a prison cell.

Slowly, Rosalind lifted her head and looked around. It took her only a moment to recognize where she was. Haven. She had a minute to wonder how that had happened, when she was fairly certain Haven was lost, buried under a mountain of snow, when she noticed Maxwell playing a game of cards in the corner with Varric, Dorian, Sera and Josephine. Josephine was clearly winning, with a mountain of jewels piled beside her.

“Max,” Rosalind called out, but none of the participants in the game seemed to notice. “Max, help,” she said again, louder.

Max glanced her way once, frowning and scanning around the room, as though he could hear her but not see her. 

“What’re you doing, Ostwick?” Varric called, snapping his fingers in front of Maxwell’s eyes, “stalling for time.”

“I thought I heard something. . .” Maxwell shrugged, returning to the game.

“Yeah yeah,” Varric jeered, “you just don’t want to lose more to Ruffles here.”

“Max,” Rosalind shouted, as loud as she could. 

He didn’t respond this time. Didn’t so much as raise his head. He continued playing cards with Varric, and the others. Laughing and talking. He looked happy. And something about the scene struck Rosalind as oddly right. As though Maxwell fit with this group in a way she never could.

But that wasn’t what made Rosalind fall quiet.

The green mark on Maxwell’s hand was.

She drew a sharp intake of breath, glancing down at her own hands. No mark could be seen.

“What. . .” she breathed in astonishment.

“Did you really think Andraste would choose you?” An achingly familiar voice whispered in her ear. She whipped her head around, but could see nothing.

“Martin?” she whispered.

“Did you really think you were destined for holiness, Rosalind Trevelyan? Were you conceited enough, foolish enough, to believe that?”

“Martin, where are you?” she said, trying to rise to her feet. The chains pulled tight and Rosalind fell to the floor, amidst a rattling of chains and her own cry of surprise.

Maxwell’s head came up again, a frown creasing his brow. He scanned the room again, but his eyes skimmed right over her, like she weren’t even there.

“Did you believe your own promises? To Maxwell? To the Inquisition?” The voice fairly dripped with disdain as it dropped an octave lower, hissing, “To Alastair?”

Rosalind’s cheeks grew hot at that, remembering how recently she had played the part of Andraste’s chosen, and how easily she had manipulated Alastair. “I—I will keep those promises,” she declared with as much conviction as she could, sticking out her chin, though she could not see her interrogator.

“You? A mage? A monster?” Martin laughed. “What can you be but a danger to everyone near you? Did you learn nothing from the Mage Wardens? Mages are nothing but monsters who lie in wait. And there is always an excuse.”

Rosalind took a deep breath, trying to push the fearful whispers in her own mind that agreed with Martin aside. “I will keep my promises,” she repeated again, her voice stronger now. 

“You will fail.” Martin’s voice changed, deepened, became a layered echo of it’s former self, and morphed into an eldrich sound she knew all too well. “You are nothing but a mistake,” Corypheus roared. “And that mistake will cost you the world.”

There was a crackling sound, and Maxwell jumped to his feet, holding his own wrist and keening in pain.

“No,” Rosalind shouted, lurching forward to try to save her brother, though what she intended to do, she hardly knew.

But before she reached the end of her chain, the world exploded in a violent green burst and deafening bang.

And Rosalind was flung out of the fade.

 

*

Rosalind jerked awake with a muffled cry. She was slumped over her desk, her arms numb from serving as a pillow for her head. Before her was everything she’d been able to acquire about Adamant. She was cold, wearing only the robe she’d pulled on after her hasty bath. She’d meant to get dressed. Comb her hair. Grab a bite to eat. Maybe sleep in an actual bed for a change. 

But. . . Adamant.

On the hellish journey home she’d sent a raven instructing Josephine to requisition every piece of information that could be found on Adamant. It was all heaped on her desk now. She blinked, remembering pouring over the documents, frustrated at their lack of detail. It had been early afternoon when she began, but one look out the window told her it was most definitely night now. She sighed, and slowly straightened up, massaging the back of her neck and trying to banish the dream.

A bang reverberated through Rosalind’s quarters, causing her to startle. It took her a moment to realize it was a knock on her door, echoing up the staircase. It took her another moment to realize that a bang very much like this one was probably what had awoken her. 

In reality, now that she could identify the noise, she realized it wasn’t that loud at all. It’s just that Skyhold itself had become so quiet.

She rushed down the staircase and opened the door to find Cullen’s retreating form headed down the stairs. He stopped at the sound of the door opening, half-turning in surprise. And Rosalind saw he bore a small tray with a bowl of something that smelled delicious on it, and a heel of bread and slab of butter.

“Inquisitor,” he said, turning back to face her, “I—I thought you might have retired for the evening when you didn’t answer. I was just leaving but. . . but I see you are still awake.” His eyes swept over her form, and widened in surprise upon seeing her in her bathrobe. His cheeks turned a faint pink, and he averted his eyes in evident embarrassment as though she were naked. 

“Oh. . . yes. Still awake,” Rosalind answered, not wanting to tell him that the sound of his first knock had probably played the role of ‘world exploding’ in her dream, and was responsible for her current state of wakefulness.

He nodded and came back up the stairs towards her, slowly, eyes still averted. “I didn’t see you at dinner tonight. I just. . .” he trailed off, gesturing at the tray. “Have you eaten, my lady?”

“No, that’s. . . that’s very kind of you.” It was kind. Extraordinarily kind, given the circumstances. She had left for Crestwood certain that Commander Rutherford was attempting to distance himself from her by any means necessary. Certain that, while he posed no direct threat to the mages in the Inquisition, he could never befriend one. Certainly not her.

But perhaps she had been wrong. 

Rosalind reached out and took the tray of food. Having been relieved of his burden, Cullen’s hands fell to his side, where he opened and closed them restlessly, while looking anywhere but at her. 

This gave Rosalind a moment to study him. She thought he looked, perhaps, a touch better. Better rested, in any case. And less guarded. But perhaps that was simply because he wasn’t wearing his armour or short sword. Rosalind couldn’t recall ever seeing him without those accessories before. Without the pommel to rest his hands on, Cullen seemed much less self-assured and composed. It was strange, but not unwelcome.

“Well,” he said, still rubbing his neck, and apparently studying her thick socks, “I—I’ll take my leave, then.”

“Commander,” Rosalind spoke on impulse, seizing the moment to try again for the friendship she had thought they’d been building before Haven, “would you like to come in?”

“I—my lady?” Cullen met her gaze then and she was startled to see a hot red blush sweep up from his neck to his forehead like a tidal wave.

Shit. Did I just invite an unchaperoned man into my room in the middle of the night, while wearing only a bathrobe? Shit. How late is it, exactly?

True, she rarely thought of her quarters as anything more than a study, but there was technically a bed in there. Shit. 

True, the shapeless garment that served as her bathrobe was about two sizes too big for her and, with buttons all the way down the front and a draw-string belt, was more modest than most of her clothes. But it was still a bathrobe. Shit.

Rosalind felt an answering blush begin to blossom on her own cheeks. She rushed to explain. “I was studying maps and records of Adamant. Perhaps they might be of interest to you? And. . . and you said you wanted to speak with me in any case. Would now be a suitable time?”

“Ah,” Cullen nodded, his blush subsiding slightly. “Yes. Of course.”

“Good,” Rosalind said, stepping back and allowing him to precede her up the narrow flight of stairs to her rooms.

He stood awkwardly in the middle of her study, making the enormous room feel far too small with his presence. He was still a big man, even without the armour. She could see the muscles of his shoulders move under his linen shirt as he raised his arm to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck again. His shirt gaped open at the front slightly, revealing a light dusting of curly blond chest-hair, just begging to be touched.

Shit. Where had that thought come from?

Rosalind scuttled past him, placing the tray of food on the corner of her desk, beside the mountains of useless paperwork on Adamant. “Here is what I have on Adamant so far,” she said in a rush, already regretting her impromptu decision to invite Cullen in to her quarters, which she now couldn’t thinking of as anything but ‘bedroom’. “Perhaps you’ll look it over while I quickly make myself a bit more presentable. I’m afraid I got a bit distracted by these documents after my bath.” She laughed, trying to make light of the situation, gesturing at the now cold bath water still in the hip bath by the fireplace.

Cullen raised his eyebrows, his blush darkening again. 

Shit.

“I—I don’t wish to impose, my lady. I can speak with you tomorrow. . . I—I’ll take my leave. I didn’t mean to disturb your. . .” his blush turned an alarming shade of crimson as he mouthed the word ‘bath’.

Rosalind broke his gaze, flying over to her small dressing room recessed in the corner. Since her bedroom did serve as an office, Josephine had thoughtfully included a small dressing room. It didn’t need to be big. She didn’t really own any clothes or cosmetics. “No, no” she said as she pulled the curtain shut and hastily rummaged through the dresser, pulling out a simple floor-length wool gown that Vivienne had had made for her. “I’ll only be a moment.”

Frankly it was ridiculous to have gowns at all. She couldn’t fight in them, and rarely wore them. The virtue of this one, though, was that it would take no time at all to get dressed. One garment. Sounded good to her.

She shrugged out of her robe and fumbled with her undergarments, trying to ignore the fact that there was just a flimsy curtain between herself and the commander. But, in a matter of moments she had the woollen dress up over her head and smoothed in place. It fell to her feet, hiding the thick knobby socks she’d pulled on against the chill of the stone floor. 

Rosalind yanked a comb through her hair a few times. She didn’t bother glancing in the mirror Josephine had hung on the wall. She was decent, and properly clothed. If she still looked as much of a mess as she felt. . . well. . . she’d rather not know.

She pulled the curtain aside and stepped back into the office.

*

He shuffled the papers on Rosalind’s desk, acutely aware of the rustling of fabric on the other side of the curtain, and cursing himself for being there at all. He should never have accepted her invitation. What was he even thinking? Bringing her dinner was one thing, but the whole goal was to make sure she took time for herself and rested. And here he was, like a fool, taking up her time.

Then again, he thought, as he scanned the documents a second time, it wasn’t as though she had been resting. He could see detailed notes in her precise hand littered a few pages on the left. There were stacks of other documents along the edge of the desk, and two open books on the right. One a quite famous reference on the history of sieges, and the other a war tactical manual. 

Whatever Rosalind had been doing that had caused her to miss the evening meal, it didn’t appear to have been restful.

He pulled her notes towards him and scanned them. She was already cataloguing what was known of Adamant. How high the walls were, and how thick the doors. She’d noted with evident relief that there were no hot oil traps known to be employed in Adamant. But there were plenty of defences to note even without those. 

He heard footsteps behind him. “Thank you for your patience, Commander,” Rosalind said. She had come up beside him and taken the tray of food.

He turned to say something dismissive and found the words stuck in his throat. She wore a dress. A simple dress, but the classic lines said that, simple or not, this dress was quality. It fit like a glove. Long sleeves that clung to her arms and wrists. A gentle scoop neck curved below her collar bone, revealing nothing and tantalizing in its modesty. There was a soft contour to the waist, skimming her own curves without clinging to them, before falling in a gentle a-line to pool at her feet on the floor.

She gestured at it and made a self-deprecating smirk. “Vivienne is seeking to remind me that I am a lady after all,” she laughed. “But it is comfortable, and quick to put on.”

“Ah,” was all Cullen managed to say. It sounded like he was being strangled. He felt too hot.

She studied him for a moment, her brows arched quizzically.

“I—“ Cullen tried, but could find nothing to say. It was as though all knowledge of the Common Language had been wiped clean from his mind. He fumbled, opened his mouth again, and then closed it, deciding it was better not to try altogether.

“Well,” Rosalind said after a moment of awkward silence. “Right. . . would you mind terribly, Commander, if I ate this excellent smelling food you so thoughtfully brought me while we discuss whatever it was you wanted to discuss?”

Cullen simply nodded, not trusting his addled brain to come up with anything resembling a coherent thought. He was gawking at her. He knew he was. But he couldn’t seem to look away.

“Thank you.” Rosalind said, still giving him a puzzled look, her cheeks turning slightly pink. 

He was embarrassing her with his gawking now. ‘Stop, you fool,’ he hissed silently to himself.

She settled herself on the small sofa adjacent to her desk. She pulled the side-table close to her elbow, set the tray down, and folded her feet beneath her, tucking them under her skirts. Then she began to eat and it was clear that she was ravenous.

With a monumental effort, Cullen forced himself to look away. To not notice the way the neck of her dress shifted slightly as she bent to the task of eating, revealing just the smallest hint of the swell of her breasts. He stared resolutely out the window, taking deep breaths and thinking of anything but rustling fabric, as his treacherous blood rushed southward, tingling in his loins.

After a few mouthfuls, Rosalind set her spoon down and spoke again. “What was it you wanted to discuss, Commander?”

Cullen nodded, and forced himself to meet her gaze. Only her gaze. “My lady,” he began, relieved to find he no longer sounded like a simpleton, “I owe you an apology.” He held her gaze, and reminded himself why he had wanted to speak to her, ignoring the distracting way her muscles and curves shifted under the soft woollen garment. “And an explanation. I acted unfairly to you the last time we spoke in the War room before you left. You had every right to question me. As the leader of the Inquisition, you have the responsibility to ensure the safety and competency of those under your command. I should have answered your questions calmly. For my rage, I apologize.” Remembering his anger, and the barrier falling between them, cooled his heated blood. He should be ashamed in her presence, not gawking at her like a chantry boy at a brothel.

Rosalind nodded, eyes filled with sympathy. “Of course, Commander. Apology accepted. I understand something of lyrium withdrawal, and know you were not yourself.”

“Thank you,” Cullen whispered, relieved. But the hard part lay ahead. “You . . .” he sighed, and sat down heavily on the corner of her desk. “You asked about Kirkwall. About Bethany. And. . . and about Kinloch Hold—”

“This isn’t necessary,” Rosalind said softly, cutting him off. “Commander, there is no need for you to share these details. I will admit that Hawke’s words . . . unsettled me. And your response when I asked you also. . . unsettled me. But I do not require you to explain your past to me. It was unfair of me to demand that of you. In the time I’ve known you I have never seen any reason to doubt your abilities or your good will. That should have been enough.”

Cullen’s mouth fell open. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t this. “My lady. . . are . . . are you quite sure?”

“Everyone deserves their privacy.” Rosalind’s eyes took on a far-away look, as she stared at a memory Cullen could all too easily guess at.

He thought of Roberts, now serving the Inquisition in Haven, and of the information the young templar had relayed. Rosalind had never told them. Had never breathed a word of it. Had never addressed her inexplicable absence from the circle at all.

And Cullen’s heart ached for her. For her and for Roberts, and for the countless people the circle had failed. He knew he would need to inform her of Roberts’ appointment in the Inquisition, if only to secure her consent to allow Roberts to remain. But not tonight. If she would allow him the luxury of avoiding his past tonight, he would do the same for her.

Perhaps tonight, just this one night, they could side-step the circle.

“My thanks,” he said. 

Rosalind smiled in return. “Was that all you wished to discuss?” she asked.

Cullen hesitated, not sure of how to broach the next subject. But someone had to. “Not entirely, my lady,” he began, “Leliana told me that you had been concerned for my welfare, and had arranged to have my duties lightened for a few days while you were away.”

Rosalind paused, with a spoon of hearty stew half-way to her mouth. She gave him a carefully guarded look. “I did,” she said neutrally.

Cullen licked his lips. “I—I wanted to thank you for that kindness,” he said.

She visibly relaxed at that. “I’m glad you found it helpful, Commander.”

“Yes. As you said, I—I was not myself before you left. There’s a lot riding on us. And, because of your kindness, I have found ways to. . . to make it easier to cope.”

“Oh?” Rosalind asked between mouthfuls.

“I play chess with Leliana a couple of times a week now, and have delegated some of my tasks to other who are capable and deserve more responsibility.”

“You play chess. . .” Rosalind asked quizzically.

“I do.”

“With Leliana?”

“Yes.”

“So. . . as a way to relax, the Commander of my forces, and my Spymaster play a game of strategy? Is that not too much like work?” 

Cullen shrugged, “what can I say, Inquisitor. I am devoted to my work.” He gave a soft self-deprecating chuckle, and saw the corners of Rosalind’s mouth quirk. 

“Who wins?” she asked, a playful smiled now well and truly lifting the corners of her lips.

Cullen found himself grinning back, as he settled into the easy banter. “Why do you ask?”

“I suppose I’m curious to hear about a battle of wits between my spymaster and my Commander. I would hope you are evenly matched.”

“Ah, so you’re enquiry is purely with regards to the competency of your advisers, then?”

“Naturally,” she replied, archly. 

“Leliana cheats. . . badly. . .” Cullen supplied. 

Rosalind laughed softly at that. Cullen’s grin grew broader, his heart filling with a warm pride that he had made her laugh. “If you’re so aware of her deceit, then I take it you win?” she surmised.

“Often, yes.” 

“I doubt she much likes being outmanoeuvred,” Rosalind offered, turning to the heel of bread and smartly breaking it in half.

“No, I don’t think she does. But chess is more a game of strategy than subterfuge. And, I have a lot of practice under my belt.”

“Oh? Is this how the young Cullen Rutherford used to while away the hours?”

Cullen felt a jolt in his chest. He couldn’t remember Rosalind ever using his first name before. He liked it. He licked his lips, and floundered for a moment, trying to remember what she’d asked. Oh yes, about his youth. “I used to play with my sister.” 

Rosalind clucked her tongue in mock disapproval. “More’s the pity for Varric’s new tale. As I hear it, he has you breaking young girl’s hearts across Fereldon before your parents sent you off to the templars in order to save the country from being over-run by Rutherford bastards.” She smirked, studying him with dancing eyes to see how he’d react.

Cullen felt his cheeks grow hot again. “Uh. . .”

Rosalind burst out laughing. And the laughter was free, unfettered and infectious. In spite of himself, Cullen joined in, laughing along with her, and shaking his head.

“We’re both a disappointment to him,” she said finally, when she could speak again. “Me and my mid-night reading,” she gestured at the piles of books on the desk beside Cullen, “and you with your chess. Hardly the stuff of heroes.”

Cullen’s chuckles subsided too, leaving a welcome ache in his ribs. “I. . . I wonder, my lady,” he began again, “do you play chess?”

Rosalind’s eyes widened in surprise. Then she gave him a playful frown that sent his heart lurching about his chest like a drunkard. “I do,” she said carefully. “Why do you ask?”

“I believe Leliana grows weary of losing to me. I—I wondered if you might care for a game some time?” He spoke in a rush, and then took another deep breath, his besotted heart bouncing stupidly off his ribs.

There. He’d done it. He’d made the offer of friendship he should have made months ago. A simple game of chess. A distraction. A small space he would help Rosalind carve out of her day where she wasn’t expected to to be a leader, a saviour or a religious symbol. Where he would ask nothing of her but that she be herself.

Rosalind set down the heel of bread and sat back, leaning against the back of the sofa and pinning him with her black black eyes. He held her gaze steadily, and held his breath, waiting. He hoped she would see the offer for what it was.

She studied him.

“Yes,” she said after a moment that felt like an eternity. “I believe I would like that. When do you normally play?”

“Just before the dinner hour. In the garden,” Cullen said. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow it is.” She met his gaze again, and her exhausted eyes were filled with gratitude.

“Well, then. . . I’ll take my leave and allow you some rest.”

She rose from the sofa, unfolding her legs beneath the sweep of the gown in a highly distracting move. “But we haven’t discussed Adamant yet, Commander?” she protested.

Cullen looked into her bloodshot eyes, and sallow cheeks. The bath had done her good, as had the food. But she was still far from well. “My lady, my counsel is that we save discussions of Adamant for another time. Forgive the bluntness of this observation, but you need your rest. Allow me to look over what you have compiled, and discuss matters with Blackwall. Then we can meet again.”

She huffed out a sigh, rumpling her hair. But she nodded. “I know,” she said softly. “You’re right. I know. It’s just. . . Adamant. Commander. . . I made a promise. But. . . Adamant.” Much to Cullen’s horror, tears filled her eyes and her shoulders slumped. “It has never fallen,” she whispered.

“I will find a way,” Cullen repeated the pledge he had made earlier, no more certain of his ability to keep it. “You have my word, my lady.”

She raised her head and met his gaze. She nodded. Once. “Alright,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this! Finally got to some light stuff, you know, before Orlais and Adamant! Should be one or two more light chapters ahead before everything gets all angsty again!
> 
> And as always thank you for sticking with me even though my updating is erratic. I really appreciate the comments and kudos. Knowing you guys are interested in reading more keeps me coming back to this story whenever I've got a spare moment!!


	24. Chess

The first day of etiquette training was off to a good start, Rosalind thought, as she made her way to the pub for a bite to eat, and maybe a drink with Varric before meeting Cullen for chess in the garden. Vivienne had pronounced her Orlesian ‘passable,’ after commenting that her accent was ‘charmingly rustic’. Rosalind still ground her teeth at that. ‘Rustic’ was simply not a compliment. But she tried to console herself with the reminder that ‘passable’ from Madame de Fer was high praise indeed.

She descended the steps of the great hall, taking a deep breath of the crisp mountain air, and admire the pinks and oranges of a dying day, and feeling almost at peace, for a moment. She had the feeling that she was doing all she could to move things along, and with that feeling came a sense that it might, possibly, be okay to relax for just a moment. 

Of course, that moment couldn’t last. 

“You have to do something,” Cole wailed from the top of the stairs, as Solas rushed past her on his way down.

“No.”

“Why not? You like demons. You’re a mage. Why won’t you help?”

“I like the company of spirits, but I don’t abuse them with bindings!” Solas sounded hard, frustrated. Rosalind backed out of the way as he brushed past her, sparing her hardly a second glance, Cole chasing behind.

“It isn’t abuse if I ask for it,” Cole protested.

“That is not entirely true.” Solas replied, not looking back. “Also, I do not practice blood magic, which renders this entire conversation academic.” 

“But you do,” Cole said suddenly, turning to face Rosalind, as though just recognizing that she was there.

“What?” Rosalind asked, taking an involuntary step back.

“What?” Solas said turning, eyebrows raised as he studied Rosalind. 

“Tiny drops. Little offerings. Scattered to the winds. Searching. Seeking. Afraid. So afraid. One more. Always one more. For safety,” Cole muttered, holding Rosalind in his glassy gaze. “You can do this. Solas won’t help me, but maybe you can?”

“I—I,” Rosalind felt her blood grow cold, remembering her flight from the circle, and the desperate measures she had resorted to in order to protect herself. “I don’t practice blood magic,” anymore, she silently added. “And. . . and even if I did, Cole, I don’t know how the Grey Warden mages did what they did? I never studied that. And. . . and I wouldn’t want to. I can’t bind you, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”

“But you have to. If you won’t, if Solas won’t, then someone else could. They will. And then. . . I’m not me anymore. Walls around what I want. Blocking, bleeding, making me a monster.” Cole shivered. “You have to do something!” he seized her wrist, dragging her down the last few steps of the stairs, and spinning her to face him.

She winced at the fierceness of his grip, certain that he was leaving a bruise. “Okay,” she said, resting her hand on his wrist, and easing it off her arm. “Okay, I’ll help. Of course I’ll help. But I can’t use a binding ritual. It would put walls around you just as surely as the Wardens did.”

“But you’re my friend. It will be okay if it’s you.” He was wailing now.

“Walls are walls, Cole,” Rosalind replied, thinking of the circle. “A benevolent prison is still a prison.”

“There is another course of action I would recommend,” Solas interjected. “The Rivani mages used amulets to protect spirits they summoned away from rival mages. A spirit wearing such an amulet is immune to blood magic and binding. Perhaps we could use the resources at our disposal to track such an amulet down.”

Rosalind nodded, grateful. “Okay,” she said. “We will try to find one of these amulets, alright, Cole?”

“Now,” Cole cried.

Rosalind sighed, thinking longingly of food in the tavern. “Now,” she agreed. “I’ll talk to Leliana and have her send out ravens, and talk to Josephine and have her reach out to her contacts.” 

Cole nodded, satisfied.

With one last look at the tavern, Rosalind headed back inside to track down a magical artifact.

*

She was late. 

Cullen sat in the garden before the chess table with a small tea trolley and a tray of chocolates feeling supremely stupid. He’d opted for tea instead of the wine he and Leliana normally drank after noticing that Rosalind rarely frequented the tavern. At first he’d thought about coffee, but then remembered that she never chose coffee at the breakfast bar.

So he’d borrowed a little tea trolley from Vivienne, who looked much amused as she graciously lent it to him. Then he’d asked the kitchen to make a high tea. When they’d enquired as to what exactly went into a high tea, Cullen had to admit he didn’t know. And there was no way he was going back to Vivienne to find out. Instead, he’d opted for a pot of tea, pitcher of milk, bowl of sugar, and plate of chocolates. You couldn’t go wrong with chocolate, right?

Except. . . she was late.

Maybe she wasn’t intending to come at all. Maybe she had simply not wanted to offend him. After all, how many people actually enjoy chess? She’d seemed surprised to find that he enjoyed it. Had even poked fun at him for his choice of pastime. What had made him think she’d want to spend time playing a game of war with him, when they were all literally already fighting for their lives?

He shook his head, feeling like a fool, and began the process of tidying up the chess men in their small case, and loading everything back onto the little tea trolley. 

He had just finished folding up the board, and was collecting the board, box of men, and tray of food when he heard footsteps racing through the garden. Turning, he saw Rosalind looking quite breathless running towards him. 

“Inquisitor,” he said, “I—I thought you’d been delayed.”

“I—I was. I’m sorry. But. . . but I’m here now.” She seemed to notice, for the first time, the chess board packed under Cullen’s arm. She raised her eyebrows and Cullen thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in her dark eyes. “Unless you have other duties to attend to?”

“No, no,” Cullen said too quickly. “I mean. . . I am quite free.”

She nodded. Smiled. “Well, then, prepare the board, Commander.” She sat down opposite him, pushing her hair out of her eyes, and for the first time noticing the tea trolley. “Tea?” she asked quietly, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t know you liked tea.”

Cullen shrugged as he began to set the board up. “You like it,” he said.

This reply was met with a long silence. Cullen looked up, concerned that, this early into their appointment, he’d already said something to upset her. But she was giving him a thoughtful look. “I do like it,” she said with a smile. “Thank you, Commander.”

Cullen felt heat rising at the back of his neck under her gaze. Feeling flustered, he returned to the board. “Think nothing of it,” he said.

The game began in silence. Rosalind trained those disquieting black eyes on the board, and focused her attention on the game. And she was good. Within a few moves she had captured one of Cullen’s knights and a rook, and he was already on the defensive.

He worried about the lack of conversation, but Rosalind didn’t seem ill at ease. She absent-mindedly nibbled on a chocolate as she watched the board, and he felt himself relax too. Though they played in relative silence, the silence itself was comfortable.

“Check,” Rosalind announced, decisively moving her bishop into place, trapping his king.

“Damn,” Cullen said softly. “Well-played, my lady.” He studied the board, trying to see a way out for his king without sacrificing another of his pieces, but there wasn’t one. With a sigh, he realized the only way out was to sacrifice another rook. “Well played,” he said again, relinquishing the rook to save the king.

Rosalind smiled, capturing the rook easily. “Thank you, but the game’s not done yet,” she replied. 

Cullen leaned forward, studying the board intently, determined not to make the victory too easy for her.

“Where did you learn to play?” she asked quietly, selecting another piece of chocolate. 

“I used to play with my sister, actually,” Cullen said. “She was quite talented, and two years older than me. She would beat me easily, and loved to gloat when she won. The day I finally took her king. . . well. . .” he grinned, “she was furious. It was one of the proudest days of my childhood.” Carefully, he moved a piece.

Rosalind laughed at that, making her own move with scarcely a pause.

“And you?” he asked, hoping to keep the light conversation going. 

“I learned from my father, actually,” Rosalind replied. “While my brothers were off training, I would sneak into father’s study and he’d allow me to stay as long as I read quietly in one of the leather chairs. Occasionally, if he wasn’t working or reading, he’d play a game with me. I always lost. He didn’t believe in letting children win. He said, when I won my first game, I would know that I’d earned it.” She smiled sadly. “I never did win. Not before. . . well. . . not before the circle. And I never played with him after.”

‘Damn,’ Cullen thought, making his own chess move with hardly a thought spared to the game, ‘we’re back at the circle again.’ Could the two of them never hope to escape it? Silence fell as he cast around for something to say.

Rosalind rested her chin in her hand, studying the board. “It was my favourite room in the whole house, really,” she mused.

“When Leliana first . . . ah . . . debriefed us regarding you,” Cullen said, not at all sure if this was the right topic. But at least it wasn’t the circle. “She spoke of you as a scholar. Was that your father’s influence?”

Rosalind raised her eyes briefly from the board, before slowly making her next move. “Not really,” she replied, still holding her hand on the piece she’d moved, studying the board carefully. “He was well read, of course. But all of the noble houses in Ostwick are. Else what would we have to talk about during our seven-course dinners?” she laughed, “We weren’t interesting people, so we needed to read interesting books. But,” she sat back, releasing the piece, clearly satisfied with her choice, “my father’s library was much more extensive than he knew. It was the Trevelyan library, and housed books bought over generations. And some of our ancestors had obviously been scholars. I don’t think he was aware of a tenth of what was in there. Certainly not aware of the things he let a ten-year-old child read!” She laughed again.

“Ah,” Cullen nodded, laughing before returning to the game. He tentatively moved another piece. If he played carefully he just might—

“Check,” Rosalind announced quietly, sliding her queen across the board.

“Damn,” Cullen hissed, provoking a soft chuckle from her. Again he sacrificed a piece to save his king. “Your brother’s didn’t play?” he asked.

“Not really,” she replied. “They were allowed to train. Chess paled in comparison to a real sword, as I was led to understand. I’m surprised you played as a child, really.”

“I had no formal training until joining the templars, my lady,” Cullen said, cursing himself for bringing up templars, but seeing no way around it. And so, they were back at the circle.

“Oh,” Rosalind said. But her attention had returned to the game. He watched her as she studied the board, while pouring herself a second cup of tea. She sat back, stirring in some milk, lost in concentration. And silence descended between them again.

And that was how the game progressed. There were long stretches of silence, where Rosalind studied the board and Cullen studied Rosalind. Occasionally one of them would make some off-hand comment, and they would chat about this or that for a few moments. Inevitably, the circle would come up. But it wasn’t the only thing that came up. And when it did come up they were mostly able to speak about it in a detached and civilized way.

He found himself speaking of his childhood. His sisters. His parents. Life in Honnaleath. He revealed the ways in which Mia had tormented him as a child, locking him in the privy one day as revenge after he finally beat her at chess. And he spoke of what it was like to work a farm. Things he hadn’t thought of in years.

His mother singing off-key as she tended to the animals. His father’s soft spot for mubari pups, allowing them to sleep at the foot of the bed when he thought no one was awake to notice. His grandmother’s soul-cakes, fresh from the oven. The feel of diving into the frigid cold pond near his family home on a hot summer’s day.

Cullen learned that Rosalind had loved her dancing lessons, hated the harp, and had been terrified of horses and riding until she was eight, mostly due to the fact that her brother Martin had told her horses were demons trapped in flesh.

He learned she had been betrothed. That her family had been in dire straits. That her eldest brother had grown up far too fast under the weight of rising financial ruin, and her parents’ ailing health. And that she had spent much of her childhood hiding in the dark recesses of her father’s expansive library while her mother, her eldest brother Randall, or one of the maids tried to track her down for another lesson in how to be a good wife.

“It was important, you see,” she said. “I knew that, even then. I just didn’t like it. Didn’t like the idea that everyone’s future security depended on my pleasing someone I’d never even met. I can’t say I rebelled against it, exactly. But I wasn’t much of a dutiful daughter, either. I consented to the betrothal, but I didn’t work very hard to ensure it’s success.” She fell silent. 

“And when you magic manifested, the betrothal was cancelled, I take it,” Cullen asked, gently, hoping the broaching the topic of the circle directly wouldn’t shatter the companionable afternoon they’d spent together.

“It was,” she replied, meeting his gaze, and though she didn’t say it, Cullen could see that the guilt of this still weighed on her, haunting her black black eyes. He held her gaze for a moment, and watched the pain of guilt shift to a steely determination. “I’d made a promise, with that betrothal,” she said softly, “and I didn’t honour it. I didn’t take it seriously. I don’t make promises lightly anymore, Commander.” She raised her chin.

Cullen could have said any number of things in response to this. Protested that she had been a mere child when the betrothal was made. Pointed out that it was hardly her fault that she was a mage, and thus hardly her fault that the promise had been broken. But he didn’t. He felt he was, finally, beginning to understand her. She wouldn’t thank him for offering up excuses. Instead he reached across the side of the table, through the collection of his captured pieces, and took her hand firmly in his own, his heart galloping the entire time in trepidation.

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away.

“I know, my lady,” he said, holding her gaze, holding her warm palm, determined to show her that he did know.

He knew how many promises she had made since joining the inquisition. And how many more since becoming inquisitor. And he knew how those promises weighed on her soul. But even more importantly, he knew she would do everything in her power to keep her word.

He knew.

He knew who she was.

They studied each other, all thought of the game forgotten. 

He could feel the fresh callouses on her palm that had developed from recent months of staff-use. Could feel the flutter of her pulse in her wrist whisper against the tips of her fingers. Could feel the curious sensation of the mark—the anchor—pricking his skin gently, causing the small hairs along his arm to rise.

‘Kiss her,’ a thought whispered at the back of his mind. He wanted to. Her soot-black eyes were wide. Soft red lips slightly parted in surprise. It would be a simple matter to lean across the table and capture her mouth.

He was already in motion before he could second-guess himself. Not wanting to second-guess himself. Not willing to listen to the litany of reasons why this was a bad idea.

As he shifted towards her his hand, still firmly holding her own, bumped one of his captured pieces. It fell to the stone floor with a deafening sound. Rosalind startled, pulling out of his grasp, eyes following the fallen soldier.

The moment was lost.

“Apologies,” Cullen muttered, bending to retrieve it and cursing himself for a fool. What had he been thinking? Didn’t she have enough to deal with without adding on the unwanted affections of a besotted former-templar? He could feel his cheeks grow hot as he righted the piece on the table not lifting his eyes from the board.

He had the sensation that Rosalind was studying him. Again. Which only made his cheeks grow hotter. “I believe it’s your turn, my lady,” he said, still not meeting her gaze.

“Of course,” she replied, bending over the board again.

Cullen took a deep breath, concentrating on calming the tidal waves of emotion breaking over his heart.

“Check mate,” she said, an impish grin of delight pulling her soft red lips. Her eyes danced as she sat back, triumphant.

At that, Cullen laughed. He laughed in release of all the wild emotions still raging through him. Laughed in triumph along with her, that they had been able to spend an entire chess game together without any serious confrontations or hurt feelings. Laughed in relief that perhaps, though he could not claim her love, he might be able to still count her among his friends.

He didn’t even bother to scan the board to see if she was correct in her assertion, certain that she was. He simply nodded and laughed. 

“Well done, my lady. I will have to tell Leliana,” he said when he’d regained his composure.

Rosalind gave a soft chuckle herself. “Victory without cheating? I doubt she’ll believe you,” she quipped.

Cullen flicked his king over, allowing it to tumble to the table and fall before her queen’s feet. And if only he knew the significance of this, that was well and good. She didn’t need any more distractions.

“Thank you, Commander, for the game and. . . thank you,” Rosalind said.

“Of course, my lady,” Cullen replied, bending to the task of retrieving the pieces scattered about the board and packing them. 

“We should do this more often,” she ventured. “I’d like that.”

Cullen’s hand stilled over the pieces, his heart accelerating fast. He strove to keep his voice light. “I—I’d like that, too, my lady,” he managed to say.

Her smile this time was radiant. “Me too!” she exclaimed, her right hand unconsciously rubbing her left, exactly where he had held it. 

Cullen studied the smile, and the unconscious gesture, and swallowed hard. Was it possible? Could she. . . did she feel something for him? “You said that already,” he said gently, watching her out of the corner of his eyes.

A bright, beautiful, crimson blush rushed to her cheeks and she dropped her gaze to the chess pieces before her. ‘Maybe it is possible, after all,’ he thought. ‘Maybe she does feel something.’

“Tomorrow?” He asked.

Rosalind frowned and shook her head. “I’m helping Cole tomorrow.”

“Then the following day?” Cullen pressed on, determined not to lose this opportunity.

“Dance lessons, I’m afraid. But three days hence? Same time?” Rosalind offered.

“It would be my pleasure, my lady,” Cullen replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this, because I think things get a bit more tense and angsty in the next few chapters. Thank you very much for the kudos and the comments. They really make my day. I'm so happy to know that people are enjoying this bit of fanfiction fun with me!


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